


Test of Focus

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor [40]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Healing takes a lot more time than we want it to. If only it were more immediate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Test of Focus

**Author's Note:**

> Episodes referenced: Journey to Babel (TOS), The Perfect Mate (TNG), Inner Light (TNG), All Good Things (TNG)
> 
> C&amp;C stories referenced: On the Madhouse Boards, Girl Mad as Birds
> 
> Author's note: My gratitude to Penny, for loaning me her Enterprise fic, Shaking It Off (which guest stars here as thinly-disguised twenty-fourth-century literature). Chocolate frogs and every-flavor beans to Rocky for reading early drafts and pointing out the missing bits.

 

You. There, with your gazing eyes  
Your blazing eyes

A hand or something passes across the sun. Your eyeballs slacken  
you are free for a moment. Then it comes back: this  
test of the capacity to keep in focus  
this  
       unfair struggle with the forces of perception  
this enforced  
                       (But at that word your attention changes)  
this enforced          loss of self  
in a greater thing of course, who has ever  
lost herself in something smaller?

\-- Adrienne Rich

~^~^~^~^~

_He remembers the way his brother swore when he jammed a chunk of wood under Robert's bedroom door to make him late to breakfast, to hear Maman praise punctuality and see her eye Robert with disapproval. _

_He remembers talking his roommate into leaving so he could have the room to entertain guests. One at a time. Female guests. One of them even helped him with a last minute study session to pull him through a difficult final. Graduation, revelry, shipping out. Friends he hadn't seen in years, as young, thin, graceful, starry-eyed ensigns._

_He rolls over in his wide captain's bed, larger than he needs. It's cold where his body hasn't been. _

_He can identify a void. It doesn't help fill it. Now that he doesn't need to lock doors or bargain with roommates, he sees no way to find the warmth and affection he wishes might be possible._

_No matter. He chose this, after all._

~^~^~^~^~

He woke. This is his bed, but at his back --

"Mmm?" The mattress shifted, a hip bumped him, and Deanna studied him from inches away, her eyes bleary with sleep and worry, her hair in disarray. "Another dream?"

He stared, disbelieving, blinking. In the half-light she had solid black eyes, the whites a narrow border.

Her fingers brushed his temple. "Jean. It was a dream. Remember?"

He exhaled, the air catching in his throat. Realization came to him, as it always did, and brought guilt with it. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."

"I know." Her eye closed. She settled into the pillow, her hand curled on the bed between them. "What was this one about?"

"Loneliness." It rushed back to him, reminding him it could return if she were to fall in the line of duty. "Cold sheets."

Under the covers, her hand found his and drew it to her belly. The old shirt she was wearing had ridden up, and his palm rested on soft, taut skin, on her navel, at the top of what they refer to as Mount Amy. The baby was quiet, and Deanna caressed the back of his hand.

"I wish the dreams would stop," he whispered.

"They will. Give it time."

"Two months."

"That's not enough. Obviously. You're much better -- that's the first time in four days." It used to be every night, sometimes several times a night. He hated that her presence had become the only solution. Subjecting her to repeated awakenings when she needed her sleep wasn't right. But she wouldn't let him leave, wouldn't let him hate himself, wouldn't let him go. She believed he was better. He must be.

While she fell asleep again, he waited, focused on being at rest. She would insist on talking if she sensed turmoil from him. Only when she finally began to snore did he allow his thoughts to wander. He would be back on the bridge in four days, and his first mission would be an important one, though diplomacy wasn't so exciting as exploration. She would be on leave at the doctor's insistence. They had decided Geordi would step up, and though it would be good to see him receive a promotion he deserved, it would also mean the last of their old senior staff would soon be leaving the Enterprise once Deanna returned from maternity leave.

Thoughts of the children, of Deanna's welfare, of his own continuing state of unease, clamored for his attention. The knot of anxiety in his stomach re-formed.

Maybe he should retire. Maybe he didn't have what it took to command a starship any more. Maybe that didn't matter either way -- he had a young boy and a soon-to-be-born daughter, and his memories of what that would be like, gleaned from his experience with Kataan, had to be weighed against his career. Perhaps they would all be happier if he weren't the captain. Perhaps Deanna wouldn't be so exhausted and on medical leave so early, if he hadn't been the captain.

He watched her sleep, the faint starlight illuminating her face. Would she be happy if he stepped down? Perhaps not immediately, that was a given, but he had to think of the long-term outlook. He did know that telling her before he made the decision would be a mistake; she would only debate the issue endlessly with him if she knew he was considering it.

She sighed in her sleep, frowned, and he turned his thoughts to other things. As he counted backwards from fifty, slowly, he realized Deanna was becoming more agitated. What he had felt hadn't caused it after all; she was dreaming again.

"Jean," she gasped.

"Cygne, I won't leave," he whispered. "We're still on board. Rest. We're home."

The nightmares were getting easier to deal with, now that he knew he could divert her worries with a few spoken words. She never woke in the middle of one. Her fears varied, from his absence to his retirement to worries about Yves. As long as he could be near and counteract them, she calmed swiftly and slept soundly. It bothered him that she obviously felt she couldn't voice the fears she spoke of in her dreams, but he assumed that she kept it deeply buried to protect him. Perhaps he still needed that protection. Perhaps he needed to protect her. Either way, he couldn't bring himself to say anything. She had already been through so much, and this pregnancy was turning out to be more difficult as a result; he couldn't speak of the nightmares she had, as he was certain it would upset her.

Carefully, he ran his thumb along the wrinkle over her right eyebrow. She hadn't really laughed in too long. Hadn't lit up with an honest smile. Everything she did appeared to be difficult for her. Something had to change; he had to see her happy again.

"I owe you," he whispered, while he could say it without an argument.

~^~^~^~^~

Geordi, thoughts racing from responsibility to responsibility, hurried through the ship to the captain's quarters. Only a week on the job and he had to resort to this. Once at the door, he paused, switched his padd to his left hand, and reached for the annunciator. He didn't touch it. While his fingers hovered over the button, he weighed the decision once more.

The door opened before he could announce himself. Feeling ridiculous for forgetting she could tell he was there, he went in. Deanna smiled but didn't get up from the couch. She wore a loose, long dress in watercolor greens and blues; her hair had been braided into a single plait.

"I'm sorry to bother you," he began. The captain's quarters, though mostly decorated in standard issue gray upholstery and carpeting, were larger and more personalized than most other quarters aboard. The ability to keep shelves of books and keepsakes, a potted plant or two, and a couple of non-standard furnishings was a privilege of higher rank; junior officers didn't have as much space for it all.

And why was he thinking of these rooms as the captain's quarters, when they were equally and obviously also hers? Geordi glanced around briefly, noting Deanna's latest rearrangements -- the six-foot broad-leafed plant had been put against a different wall, near the replicator, and a different replica of a painting hung over the couch. This time it was a sunset -- a sunrise? -- over the ocean, with clouds stippled red and yellow.

"That's all right. It's gotten rather lonely being here by myself. Even when Yves comes home from school. I miss work." She sat up, slowly, taking one of the pile of pillows to place in the small of her back. It became obvious that she'd become larger still since the last time he'd seen her. She wasn't wearing cosmetics; her eyes seemed smaller than usual, and slight wrinkles showed around them. He smiled nervously.

"You look well."

She didn't laugh, though she looked as though she might. "And yet, you're nervous. It's not that bad, Geordi. I'm fine. Please help yourself if you'd like something to drink. Come and sit, and we'll talk about what's brought you here."

He had the feeling she knew more about that than she should. While he replicated himself some raktajino and her some of whatever resided on the preset she indicated, he outlined his questions in his head. He handed her the glass of iced green beverage, settled on the couch one cushion away, and tested his drink. It could stand to be cooler.

"About the requisitions," he said.

"You've run across Lieutenant Grady, I see."

Geordi grinned. "Okay, so he's not behaving unusually in requesting unusual pets?"

She shook her head. "He and I have a running joke. He requests items he knows he won't get, and I decline."

"I was wondering what he'd do with a sehlat." Geordi put the padd in his lap and took another sip. "Or an Andorian feklet. Didn't he notice the shipwide announcement that I would be first officer until you were back from maternity leave?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he hadn't. Sometimes the crew on the lower decks fall out of touch with the upper decks, especially the ones who have more solitary natures. With a new ops officer coming in, it will probably be more of a problem. You might make an effort to counter the widening rift."

"Okay," Geordi said, uncertain of whether or not to voice his discomfort about that idea. Starfleet officers should be self-sufficient in social matters, or they should see the counselor, he thought.

"Will sometimes toured the lower decks in person because he knew Data wouldn't know how to make contact."

Geordi flinched, spilling a little of his raktajino on his thigh. "He did?"

"I'm sorry, I'm reading between the spoken and the unspoken," Deanna said softly. "And remembering your discomfort in dealing with certain socially-awkward officers in the past. Being a first officer isn't unlike being a counselor in some ways. Morale is important to you, too, you simply play a different role in it. Reminding them from time to time that the senior officers remember their existence, and that their work is appreciated, helps in keeping a cohesive and cooperative crew."

"Why did you make an example of Will and not your own methods?"

She smiled and tilted her head, again making an effort not to laugh aloud. "I don't have a method. I have friends."

"Ah." He glanced down at his drink, then at the padd. "Thanks."

"Is that all the trouble you're having? I'm glad to hear it."

"Well, the biggest problem is that the captain. . . . I don't know, I think it's just that he misses you. I don't think he means anything personal."

"If you mean the shortness, no, he doesn't." Her pensive look worried him. Had the captain made a habit of treating her the same way? Then she glanced at him sharply. "Geordi," she chided.

"He wasn't as short with you. Not as often." He paused, gathering the courage to continue. "Is he that way now? With you, even off duty?"

"Remember what he's been through. It's not uncommon for those who have suffered brain trauma to experience changes in personality."

"Are you telling me that, or yourself?"

She sat very still, the glass in one hand and balanced on her knee, her lap mostly filled with her distended abdomen. Leaning forward slightly, she put her other hand to her side and winced.

"Deanna?"

"There's not much room for movement in there and she's trying to kick." The moment passed. The pain receded from her face, and she leaned back again. "The captain is improving, I think. You'll see."

"I'm sure he will." Geordi glanced into his cup. "I should get back. Is there anything I can get for you?"

"No, but if you could help me up? I'm fine once I'm on my feet, but my back's hurting and trying to get up from this couch can be quite a job."

He took her hand and let her use him as an anchor to haul herself upright. She hurried into the bedroom, leaving him wondering if she expected him to follow or wait for her, somewhat panicked by the former and confused by the latter. When she did return nearly ten minutes later, looking relieved, she smiled and waddled back to her spot.

"Thank you. I suppose the tea was a mistake, but it did taste good. I'm glad you came, Geordi, it's good to see you. And I'm happy to see how well you've adjusted. The Babel conference will be an excellent first mission for you. First officer isn't quite the same as chief engineer."

"It's a lot of responsibility. I have a new appreciation for how difficult it must have been for you to make the switch." He retrieved his padd from the couch cushion. Noting the absence of padds or books in her general vicinity, he revisited his earlier, rejected idea, and changed his mind. "Do you read fiction?"

"Yes, often. Why?"

"Can I get your opinion of this?" He held out the padd. She took it and read the first few lines, and raised her eyes to his, startled.

"Did you write this?"

"There's about seven chapters so far. I don't know how good it really is. I think it needs some work. I'd like your opinion of it."

She nodded but didn't smile. "All right. I have plenty of time. Why don't you come for tea tomorrow afternoon, and we'll talk about it?"

He grinned. "Sure. I'll be here."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Deanna had Yves and his dog picking up toys when Picard came home. He caught Yves when the boy charged over to greet him. "How are we doing?" he asked as he regained his balance and put Yves back on his feet.

"Mama's tired," Yves announced. "Let's pway a game, Papa! Can we?"

"After you finish picking up all these toys." He ran his hand over Yves' head and smiled, received a smile in return, and turned to Deanna as Yves rejoined the dog in gathering things from the floor. She was on the edge of the sofa and starting to rise. Even though she obviously needed it, he waited until she held out a hand to offer help.

"You did too much today."

She sidled away, letting go of his hand once on her feet. "I couldn't sit all day. I only wanted a little exercise."

"You're -- " But repeating the doctor's orders and starting another argument didn't sound like a good way to spend the evening. Picard opted for reaching the replicator before she did and handing her a bowl of vegetables. She took it and picked a bright red one, waddling away and munching audibly.

"I want some!" Yves danced around her until she lowered the bowl and let him pick something. She moved with slow, deliberate grace, her skirt swaying with each step. After directing Yves to return to his clean-up duties, she came back, completing a circuit of the room.

"Had a good day?" she asked, offering Picard the bowl. He picked something green, uncertain of the identities of the cut pieces of Betazoid vegetables and deeming it too trivial to ask.

"It went well enough." This was becoming a routine, but going into detail about his day was a mistake he had made only once. "What would you like for dinner?"

"This is good enough for me." She meandered away again, eating another vegetable. Yves dodged around her to snatch up the last block and toss it at the toy bin they kept at the end of the desk in the corner. Fidele caught the block as it rebounded off the bin's edge, dropped it inside, and wagged his tail while looking at his constant companion with all the loyalty programmed into him showing in his eyes.

Picard replicated something for himself and Yves; at least they could sit down to eat even if Deanna preferred to walk. She joined them after a third slow trip around the room. Yves told them about school, though he'd probably already told Deanna already, and asked if they could visit the holodeck.

"I don't think tonight is a good night for the holodeck," Picard said, placing another cup of juice in front of Yves and taking the towel he'd used to wipe up the spill to the recycler. "We can watch a story on the imager if you like."

"But I wan' go to Fwance," Yves exclaimed around a mouthful of food.

"Why don't you take him? There's no reason we should all be forced to stay in." It sounded reasonable enough, until Deanna's tone hardened on the last few words.

"How about," Picard began, settling in his chair once more, "if you go visit Guinan? It's been a long time since you visited her. I'll bet she misses you." It had been about three weeks since he'd done more than chat with Guinan in Ten Forward, actually, but by Yves' reckoning anything longer than a minute was 'a long time.'

"Can I?" Yves slid off his chair and leaped to Deanna's side to tug on her sleeve. "Papa can take care of you."

"Of course." Deanna attempted a smile. Yves beamed and ran for his room, Fidele close behind him.

The arrangements and the transfer of boy and dog to Guinan's care took about an hour to complete, since Yves changed his mind several times on which game he wanted to take and what shoes to wear. When Picard came home again, Deanna had rearranged her cushions on the other end of the couch and settled there to stare up at the stars. Or so he thought -- she wiggled her toes and raised her foot higher, disproving his theory.

"I'm huge," she moaned. "I have to hurt myself to see my toes."

Picard straddled the end of the coffee table and carefully sat on it. Catching her heel, he studied her curled toes, all inclined toward the smallest one, and their unpainted nails. She had always painted them before, seemed to enjoy the trivial activity though she spent most of her day with shoes or boots covering them.

"What did you want to know about your toes? They look fine." He balanced her heel on his knee and massaged her foot with his thumbs. "You're not huge."

"I feel like I swallowed a planetoid. I can't stop feeling hungry, and when I eat, I get indigestion." Deanna draped both arms over her abdomen. "You don't think I'm huge?"

"I think you're beautiful, and you aren't huge." He ran a hand up the contours of her foot, the slender bones against his palm, then the knobs of her ankle, then the swell of her calf -- stubble he already knew was there pricked his fingers but didn't deter him.

She regarded him with questions in her wide eyes, looking down and away as she pulled her leg out of his grasp. Wincing, she leaned forward, searching for a more comfortable position. "Thank you," she murmured at last. She couldn't help but believe him; he had told her the truth, after all, and she could sense that.

Picard propped his elbows on his knees. She paused, gripping the edge of the sofa cushion and on the verge of pushing herself up from it.

"You're tired, Jean."

"It's to be expected. We've spent a long day en route to pick up diplomats. Just the sort of work one assigns a captain one feels might still need recovery time." Even to his ears, it sounded bitter, though he'd meant to merely acknowledge the fact.

Her touch on his arm surprised him. "You know you're still recovering. That you're functional doesn't mean you're completely healed."

When he raised his head again, he discovered she'd scooted down the sofa and her face was now within inches of his. At this range, he couldn't miss the weariness around her eyes. Something had changed, however; reassuring him had somehow loosened her defensiveness.

"I know. I'd hoped we would be exploring again soon."

"You don't like being treated as if you couldn't handle it."

"The Babel conference is important enough, but still, ferry duty isn't exactly the most exciting mission. Especially given that the ambassadors we are tasked to carry include no one likely to so much as argue with anyone. It's probably best not to push too hard -- still, I can't help but think about what Command might decide is better for me. I've already been offered promotions. If they pushed me to retire. . . ."

"You don't have anything to prove." She inserted her hand into his. Automatically, his fingers closed around it. "You're a good captain. They need you."

He met her eyes, smiling in an echo of her affection more than anything else. 'They' could, and would, eventually change their minds about how much Captain Picard was needed, likely weighing him against whatever criteria they used in ascertaining who was fit for command of a starship.

"Cygne," he murmured, caressing her cheek.

"Jean-Fish." She blinked, scowling. When he put a hand to her side and looked her in the eye, worried, she shook her head. "My back."

"You've been doing too much, haven't you?"

"It doesn't matter what I do. It's still -- " She inhaled as he probed along her spine and found knotted muscle.

Working on her back became easier with his moving to the couch and finding the best position for maximizing leverage. Incidentally, it meant wrapping his arms around her and letting her lean into him while he used thumbs and the heels of his hands along her back, alternating directions and circling around the tightness before attacking it directly.

His hands tired eventually. When he stopped massaging, she drooped against him, embracing him loosely and resting her cheek upon his shoulder. Not wanting to interrupt the most intimate encounter he'd had with her in more than a week, he rested, hands flat in the small of her back, the thin blue-and-green house dress she wore still warm from friction. They hadn't ignored each other, far from it, but something was wrong -- a deficiency in communication. Resentment? Could she sense his musings about retirement?

Her braid had loosened. Sliding a hand up her vertebrae, he tugged at the band and combed her hair loose with his fingers. Deanna sat up then, breaking the silence with the clearing of her throat. Not wanting to lose the moment, he brushed his fingertips along her cheek, down her throat, dipped his thumb into the hollow between her collarbones, and kissed her before she could move away.

"I'll be back. Sorry." She struggled up and hurried for the bedroom.

When she didn't return after the usual duration of one of her bathroom trips, he went after her. She stood at the sink, crying and furiously wiping her face with a cloth. He tried to touch her; she flinched from his hand.

"I'm fine. It's just hormones," she exclaimed, shoving the cloth under the faucet. Her hand trembled visibly.

"Let me help."

She ignored his quiet plea. While wringing excess water from the cloth, she seemed focused on the task, but he knew better than to make that assumption.

"I'm sorry."

"I know. I'll be all right." She turned to him, folding the cloth into a neat red square.

Disagreeing with this would not result in anything good, he knew, and expressing doubt would count as disagreement. He gave her a faint smile, met her eyes with his, and was answered by her own version of the same. If all they had left to share was a denial of the obvious, he could share that.

"Would you like to play a game of chess?"

She smiled with more genuine emotion and left the cloth on the sink's edge. If it ended the way last week's game had, she would win, as he would spend half the time between moves wondering what to say to her, how to get his happy wife back, and how he'd allowed this to happen in the first place. She would move pieces single-mindedly, involved in her game strategy. Being busy could be a good distraction, as he knew well from his own repertoire of coping mechanisms.

~^~^~^~^~^~

When he arrived the following day, Geordi hoped he wasn't bringing too much of the disagreement he'd just had with the new chief engineer in with him. The happiness on Deanna's face reassured him. He played waiter again, making small talk in the interim, and her smile didn't fade.

"So, what did you think?" he asked, once the preliminary inquiries as to each other's health were done.

"It's an interesting start."

He waited, but her hesitance made him impatient to hear the bad news and get it over with. "But it's bad."

"I'm not sure how to comment -- I'm certainly no great authority on human literature."

"It's not even really literature. More like popular fiction. And it's only a first draft. You aren't going to help me improve by not telling me what's wrong."

"All right, Geordi." Deanna glanced down at the padd, used her thumb to key the display back to the first page, and read out loud. "'_The Hebrides is a science vessel patrolling the far reaches of the Alpha Quadrant, and while en route to the next sector we were to survey, the containment field in the aft warp engine began to fail. The captain ordered the ship into orbit around an M-class planet in a quiet star system. All hands in engineering pulled a double shift that day to isolate the problem._' And then we have four paragraphs on what else goes awry, followed by a page of crew assignments and further mishaps, and then on page two I finally discovered that this was written in first person and it was from the point of view of a security officer. On the fifth page I discovered she was female."

"Oh," he said, not knowing what to ask, or how to ask it. Until she'd described it, he hadn't thought about his story in those terms.

"I understand the need for setting and so forth," Deanna continued. "Knowing what's going wrong is a great place to start. But, I think it needs a little more. . . accuracy. Authenticity."

"In what way?"

"Well. . . have you ever read '_Enterprise Rising_,' by Jonathon Sato? It's set in pre-Federation Starfleet."

"No, can't say that I have."

"Listen to the first few paragraphs." She raised another padd and cleared her throat.

"'_From the personal journal of Ensign Hoshi Sato: No one else can feel the tremors from the engines. Isn't that strange? We've been in and out of warp often enough now for me to be certain -- there is a definite shimmy above warp 3.5. Apparently it's normal. It's something I can get used to, eventually. Probably. I mean, if it happens all the time it will start to feel routine and I won't even notice it any more._

"'_What really fries me, though, is that T'Pol assumed I was scared when I pointed it out the first time. Pointing things out is my job. I'm on this ship because of my ability to hear -- and see -- nuances, the small subtle things that others miss. That's why I'm good with languages. The difference between an apico-deltal fricative and a lamino-alveolar fricative can be the difference between welcome compliment and deadly insult, and it's my job to point that out. This ship may be state of the art, but it's still metal and bolts and unplanned shaking can be dangerous. And when it's all that's between me and the vacuum of space, well, I want to be certain everything is running the way it's supposed to run. That's not being afraid, it's just being smart.'_"

Geordi leaned back, mouth open.

"The setting is implicit in it," Deanna said. "You can almost feel the ship around you, all new and somewhat frightening because it was the first of its kind. You know Hoshi wasn't trained very well for it, how could they teach her what to expect? She speaks with the jargon of her field, she has some conflict with her crewmates, and in the format of a log entry she sets up the reader for the story to follow, the adventures of the first Starfleet vessel. You can almost imagine being right there with her."

"And mine doesn't do any of that."

She put aside both padds. "I'm only suggesting that if you want an audience who aren't necessarily engineers, you might want to approach it from a closer perspective. There's a lot of Hoshi showing already in just a few paragraphs on the first page. Your character doesn't get a name, or even a gender, on the first page. You're holding her and her emotions out at arm's length and focusing so much on what the ship is doing that it's reading more like a report."

"All right. I guess I can see that." He took his padd and slapped it against his palm.

Deanna put a hand on his arm. "Don't feel that way, Geordi."

He shrugged, shook his head, and sighed. "Maybe writing isn't my thing. I worked on that for hours."

"It just takes persistence. That's all."

"Yeah? What've you written?"

"I don't think writing is any different than becoming a first officer, or an engineer, or a psychologist. You have to really want to do it, and you have to work at it. I know you want to. The only guaranteed way to fail is to quit, you know."

He snorted. He'd heard that particular sentiment from her before. Funny how it seemed less encouraging now than when she'd said it to someone else.

"If you keep trying, so will I," she said.

Geordi looked up from his attempt at fiction, raising an eyebrow. "You're writing?"

"I haven't had much else to do. I suppose you've inspired me." The corner of her mouth rose, and she picked up her padd to look at it disdainfully. "And frankly, I'm afraid to even look at it again myself. I'm going to start over with a new idea. So, let's meet again day after tomorrow for tea, and we'll read each other's work. Fair?"

"Fair. Thanks for being honest with me."

He left with the beginnings of suspicion -- had she only started writing because she understood ahead of time that he'd probably feel like giving up, and needed the challenge? But he supposed in the long run that it didn't matter. Already, his imagination had turned to the reshaping of his plot.

~^~^~^~^~

Picard stared out at the stars, unable to focus. The annunciator interrupted his thoughts. "Come."

Ward Carlisle came in the ready room, stiff and formal. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"At ease, already. Please sit down. Coffee?" Picard gestured at the silver pot and its attending cups, then poured more for himself. When Ward thanked him, he prepared another cup, adding sugar, no cream, as he knew his second officer liked it.

Ward settled in one of the chairs with his beverage and seemed to loosen up somewhat. "Is something wrong?"

"Not at all. I received the confirmation of your transfer this morning, and was rather startled to find that you'd be leaving when we arrive at the next starbase this evening. From my perspective, this is all quite sudden."

"I'm sorry," Ward blurted. "I thought Commander Troi had mentioned to you -- I put in for a transfer a month ago, and the position came up a week later. It's never going to be the same between the commander and I, and I know that she'd never accept a promotion even if they handed her the latest and greatest out of Utopia, so -- sir?"

"Did you have some sort of argument with Commander Troi?" This bordered on the unbelievable. He'd never seen Carlisle argue with anyone.

"It's not in her reports?"

"Not that I recall." He had deliberately procrastinated for eight days, but he had to go back to the reports made in his absence from the bridge and really read, rather than skim them.

Ward stared, caught off guard. "Really."

"I suppose I might have missed something. What did you disagree about?"

But he only shook his head. "You should ask her about that. I should go, sir, there are some last minute -- "

"Ward." Picard set aside his cup and folded his hands on the desk. "Please."

Ward adopted a bleak, tortured expression. "It's not why I'm leaving. I have to think of Cecily and the kids, you know? Seeing how Deanna. . . ." He stared vacantly for a moment at the floor, thinking. "She didn't approve of my actions. I helped Nat and deLio and the others by distracting Deanna while they left the ship. I almost went with them. And then I saw everything she went through while they were gone, and you weren't yourself, and when the admiral -- I can't believe it's not in the reports. It's got to be there."

Picard smiled thinly. "We'll miss you, Ward. I'll miss you. But I understand, and if there's anything I could do. . . ."

Ward stumbled through a request for a letter of recommendation; he didn't seem to believe he would get one. After Ward left, Picard brought up the official reports Deanna had made. When he found the relevant reports, he asked for the log entries associated with them.

It took an hour for him to finish reviewing, and another half-hour and two cups of tea to regain composure. Fifteen minutes to compose a letter of recommendation for Ward. Another fifteen minutes for mulling over the anger in Deanna's voice, the conviction, the strength coming through well and the hints of fear in her cautious wording of her entry concerning Ward's actions. No decision made carelessly, no leaping to conclusions -- she'd honestly searched her way to her solutions with hardly a faltering sentence.

She was a credit to him in any way he regarded her. He wanted to issue a commendation, decorate her somehow for the bravery she showed in walking the tightrope between duty, orders, love, loyalty, and principles. But official awards wouldn't be feasible, with Jellico's involvement and his ability to question whether she honestly deserved it, and one didn't give awards for strength of character anyway.

In the end, he continued to delve into the reports in the interest of being thorough. After missing lunch, putting off someone who wished to speak with him, and logging his assessment of her conduct, he replicated salad, his usual choice when not hungry. He chewed greens and stared at stars, closer to understanding why his wife sat with empty eyes until spoken to and refused to discuss anything that had happened during his convalescence.

Starfleet's generosity with leave made more sense all the time. He pondered taking Deanna home, allowing someone else to command his ship while he took care of her, but that seemed wrong, given how she had continued in command in spite of health risks until he returned to duty. Sighing, he discarded his plate and summoned Lieutenant Sherman to let her know he had time for her now.

~^~^~^~^~

Geordi returned after two days, apologizing for not showing up, blaming work and wanting a more polished version of his story, and grinning when he found out Deanna had a next draft of her own.

"It's not so good," she said as they traded padds.

"We'll see," he said, setting aside his raktajino. "I did some serious editing; let me know how you like it now." The padd came to life at the touch of the power toggle. He took the time to switch to black text on white screen before beginning to read. He'd been looking forward to this; after three days of hearing her hesitant commentary on his work, he was eager to see her attempt.

_ The house is too quiet now. She believes it is her fault. _

_Her mother has no time for her. Only time for the ghost of her husband, who seems to remain with them in the six rooms that were once filled with laughter every day. Mother drifts now with sadness in her face, and even though she smiles when she sees her daughter, it's obvious that the ghost has all of her attention. _

_Sandra is only seven, and it is not fair, she thinks, that she has no father and half a mother. The other half of her mother, the happy part, went away too. There is school to keep her busy. The routine they returned to after the funeral, with holes where her father's presence had been. Sandra had tried to sing at breakfast, the same song her father always started and her mother always followed in a round, until one of them broke the pattern by laughing. Her mother had instructed her to be silent instead of joining her. She didn't feel like singing today, she said, and Sandra tried not to cry, because her mother always cried now whenever she did._

_Their cousins appear and disappear at irregular intervals, all expressing concerns for Sandra, who feels that it isn't something she needs -- why aren't they concerned about Mother? Since it's Mother who stares at nothing for minutes at a time and doesn't always hear the first time Sandra calls. _

_Sandra thinks about these things in school, where her mother can't see her tears. The teacher is worried now, too; it shows in his face. He asks questions, she shakes her head and refuses to speak, until he mentions calling her mother. She tells him she misses her father and he is sad. Talk to your mother, he says, and Sandra nods. It's what will end the conversation._

_Her mother waits for her at home. When she comes into the house, her mother hugs her and cries. _

_I remind her of him, Sandra thinks. It is my fault. _

_ Six weeks after her father's funeral, she packs a few things in a bag and waits for her mother to fall asleep. By the middle of the following day, she is in the next town and examining shuttle schedules. _

Geordi stared at the screen, unable to read further.

"It's not me."

He looked up at Deanna, who leaned back against her pile of pillows at the end of the couch, arms resting on her belly, the padd with his story in hand.

"I thought about running away," she continued, lowering the padd face down to see him better. "But I never did. I used it as a beginning but I'm making up the rest."

"Oh." He reached for his cup, which sat not far away on the coffee table. "I think it's good."

She didn't smile. "You don't see anything wrong with it?"

"Well, no. I'm not sure what I should see wrong, I guess."

Deanna twisted, reaching for her glass, which sat on the end table. "The problem I'm having is that I read wonderful fiction, I think I can do the same and that have a great story to tell, yet find it difficult to put what's in my head into words in an effective manner, as other writers have done. That's not exactly what I hoped it would be. In my mind, I have a picture of the mother, the daughter, the house, and the story as it's written doesn't convey that."

"I guess so. If we even knew what species -- I'm imagining you and your mother, because you wrote it. But if you sent this to an editor he wouldn't have that knowledge of you, and so. . . . Well, maybe that's a good thing. He could imagine for himself what the characters look like."

"Did you finish reading?"

"Uh, no. Sorry. I'll bet you hadn't either."

"You were anxious. I thought I should allay that anxiety." She smiled and went back to reading, raising her tea to her lips.

When he got to the end of the text -- she'd left the story unfinished, and even stopped in mid-sentence -- he looked up. Since she still read he sipped raktajino and started over at the top, trying to remember his handful of literature classes from years ago.

"It's different," she said at last. "I like that you've moved the identification of the characters to the beginning. I like how you put a lot of the information into dialogue. But do you think they need to go into such detail?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, most of your audience will be familiar with Starfleet and starships already. And how important is it for the reader to know every detail of repairing an engine if the story isn't about the fact that they're repairing an engine?"

"Good point." He passed her story back to her. "About this -- you're not finished. I did want to see what happened next. Is the ghost real?"

"I didn't mean him to be. Why?"

"Well, the way it's set up -- I kept expecting an actual ghost. It's fiction, it could be a ghost story." He took back his padd. "And I think I need to know if it's set on Earth, or somewhere else. Plus where on the planet it's taking place -- plus, I'm not sure what kind of house I should be imagining."

"So, the setting is missing." She shifted uncomfortably against her cushions. "What do you think I should do to put it in?"

"You could describe the house."

"I don't know. It seemed so uninteresting. I don't care about houses." She fingered the end of her braid, where it lay against the front of her gray house dress.

"But I can't tell if it's a bungalow or a mansion, or a hole in the ground -- the planet it's on would help. But then some readers wouldn't necessarily know from that alone what the house should look like." He thought about stories he'd read, especially lately. "Well, how about if you describe the child as she moves around the house? You could describe her surroundings indirectly, in terms of what she's doing."

Deanna smiled. "That's a very good idea. I'll try that. It's not as easy as it looks, I'm afraid."

"Anything else on mine you noticed?"

She winced and dropped her gaze. "Well. . . ."

"Come on."

"It's almost too detailed in some of the descriptions of the rooms. And I don't think you need to describe dialogue so much." She scrolled down the padd while she spoke. "Everyone is growling and laughing while they talk. Have you ever heard someone growl while talking?"

"Ah. . . okay. I see that. You did the same thing, though, in the conversation between the child and her aunt."

She smiled, though it seemed forced. "Yes. I intend to edit, of course."

"Sure. Part of the process." Geordi thought about the editing he'd done on the first few chapters of his and tried not to feel the frustration of working that hard and receiving still more reports of flaws.

Geordi helped her up as before -- it was becoming part of the ritual of his visits -- and after some brief discussion about the state of the ship and crew, he excused himself. Deanna wasn't doing well. After three visits he could see a pattern. She would talk about his duties, his concerns, but not hers. Any mention of the captain and she changed the subject quickly. He worried, but couldn't see what he could do other than continue to visit.

~^~^~^~^~

Picard returned to the bridge after seeing off his former second officer's family to find his temporary first officer arranging guest quarters for ambassadors. Geordi relinquished the center seat, taking his padd with him. "You're here late, sir," he commented. His fingers worked the padd as he spoke. "It's beta shift."

"Where is Mendez?"

At last, Geordi looked up. "I let him go. He asked for a few hours' leave. It's fine by me, we're docked and I have quarters to assign. deLio's in a meeting with security staff, and I put Greenman on beta shift ops, but since we're docked she went to do systems checks and maintenance. Are you all right, sir?"

Picard nodded, though he felt hollow and tired. "How are the arrangements? Have we started boarding?"

"No. Our first ambassadors will come aboard first thing in the morning. We discussed that in the staff meeting. . . . Sir?"

"There's a reason we're on transportation duty," Picard said, smiling grimly. "I remember now, Geordi. Don't look like that."

The frown lines across Geordi's forehead deepened. Mouth set, he studied the padd in his hands, his expression indicating that he wasn't seeing it. "I'll miss Ward. I understand why he wanted to go. Cecily didn't want to stay, either."

"I wasn't aware Commander Troi made it that difficult for the crew in my absence." He regretted the words the instant Geordi's jaw dropped. Considering the situation carefully, he imagined he had another first officer entirely, one who had no ties to him and no feelings to hurt. "In your opinion, was Jellico's attempt to court-martial her warranted?"

"I wasn't really involved." Geordi busied himself with the padd as though room assignments took more work than calculating matter-antimatter ratios. "Wasn't on the bridge much."

"Mr. LaForge."

Subtle reproach brought Geordi's eyes up from his work. Turning slightly in his chair, the newly-promoted commander considered his response. "Jellico was his usual self. The commander did the best she could under the circumstances. She was in an impossible situation, Captain."

"I gathered as much."

"She hasn't said anything to you about it?"

"I want to hear what others have to say. As difficult as impartiality is, it remains my duty to see that this ship and crew are seen to properly, and that orders are obeyed. And that orders given in my absence are neither unreasonable nor unwarranted. I've been reviewing her reports, and Ward's. He hasn't said much but it's obvious the two of them disagreed and it caused a rift."

Geordi glanced around the empty bridge. "It was more than that."

Picard waited. One of the things marriage had taught him -- a silence, appropriately applied, would elicit a more honest response than if he asked a question that might lead conversation away along distracting channels.

"When deLio and Greenman left, and Ward and Deanna were at odds, it felt like -- " Geordi hesitated, mouth open, for a few seconds. "Everything was coming apart. She felt betrayed, and that they'd betrayed you, because she knew -- we all knew -- you wouldn't have wanted them to leave that way. But she had to remain in command. It was like she had to fight against her instincts, like she wanted to play the counselor and bring everyone together again, yet she had to be first officer instead. I've never seen her that angry on duty."

The hollowness intensified. Chest aching, Picard studied the main viewer's static view of the stars and wished for answers, even though he wasn't sure of the questions any more. "Thank you, Geordi. I'll see you in the morning. We should greet our guests together, I think."

"You're welcome, sir. Sleep well."

At the top of the bridge, Picard glanced back. Geordi had already returned to the center seat and bent to his arrangements. The bridge would be different again soon, after the final decision regarding a new second officer had been made. Once the ship was under way and heading for Babel, he would ask Geordi in to speak with him and Deanna, who should be included in the discussion of who to promote.

It was like watching children move away from home, he reflected in the lift. But Ward leaving under a cloud of resentment didn't sit well with him.

~^~^~^~^~

The following morning, Picard met Geordi at the airlock connecting the ship to the station via a long causeway. "Just in time," the former engineer exclaimed, shoulders losing some tension.

Before Picard could answer, a Vulcan strode out of the causeway followed by her entourage, and diplomacy ensued. The Rigellians, the Deltans, the Hebrideans -- he kept track but focused on the greetings, nodding and smiling, falling into the role of courteous host as easily as breathing. The handful of lieutenants Geordi had drafted for escort duty came and went, taking people to quarters and returning.

Then the one representative he'd wondered about, even felt a mild anxiety over seeing again, emerged from the airlock. The Krios-Valtese delegation was listed among the attendees. After Krios and Valt Minor had united they had jointly applied for Federation membership. He knew Kamala was responsible for both events. After her husband died in a terrorist attack, she had risen to the occasion and won allies, first on Valt, then with the Kriosian government. These things had been part of the vast flow of news crisscrossing the Federation network, brought to his attention by filters he'd set long ago to catch references to missions in which he'd played a part. That Kamala had specifically requested to be taken to Babel aboard the Enterprise had been noted in the briefing from Command.

He thought he was ready for this meeting until she stepped around what must be a bodyguard and clasped his hand in greeting. "Hello, Captain. What a pleasure to meet you again."

She wore white leggings under a knee-length paneled skirt hemmed in green. The long-sleeved white smock wasn't loose enough to conceal anything. Her hair was different, though still swept up on her head; now that he had seen hair being done every morning, he could tell that Kamala must have had help with her elaborate curls and rolls.

"Welcome aboard." Picard bowed over her hand, keenly aware of the stares of the three men with her. "This is Commander LaForge, my first officer."

Her gaze went to Geordi, who greeted her with bravado. She nodded and reached for his hand as well. "Do we know our destination yet?" she asked, glancing from Geordi to Picard and back, including them both in the question.

"Not yet, but soon. After we pick up the remainder of the delegates at Starbase 213." Geordi checked his padd. "Lieutenant Wills will escort you to your quarters. Deck six, number twenty-four. If you require alterations to your rooms, please don't hesitate to contact me."

"Thank you, Commander." Kamala's smile warmed considerably as she met Picard's gaze directly. "I look forward to the journey. I have never been to a Babel conference before."

"There haven't been many," Picard said. "Only when it's suspected that diplomatic proceedings may be sabotaged, and in the case of Larios, there are likely many in the Randra Alliance who would wish to do so. I hope you will join us for the reception tomorrow evening, after our visit to Starbase 213."

"We shall certainly attend, thank you." Bowing her head, Kamala followed Picard's gesture and led her entourage after the lieutenant without looking back.

"Wow," Geordi muttered. "She hasn't changed much."

She hadn't. Picard said nothing, simply turned to greet the next ambassador and tried to quell the nervousness writhing in the pit of his stomach. Putting the warmth of her smile out of his head proved difficult.

~^~^~^~^~

_ "Captain, there's a Klingon warbird decloaking! They're powering up phasers!" _

_Captain Eliadri moved across the bridge to stand between ops and helm, and crossed her arms. Avitz glanced at her nervously, then met Claiborne's eyes. Claiborne's palms started to get damp._

The annunciator sounded. Geordi put aside the padd and admitted his guest, and the counselor came into the first officer's office, which suddenly became much too small. They would arrive at Starbase 213 in four hours, and Geordi had hoped for some peace and quiet before his scheduled visit to Deanna, which would be closely followed by having to welcome more diplomats aboard. That it was the counselor interrupting only made it worse. He'd never gotten used to having Davidson ask some of the questions he'd always gotten from Deanna.

"Geordi," he exclaimed. "Do you have a moment?"

"Sure." Geordi closed his mouth and indicated the single guest chair. Davidson took it, smiling in his usual practiced-pleasant way.

"So how are you doing? I haven't seen much of you lately."

"Busy trying to keep up with everything, that's all." Geordi gestured vaguely at the office.

"How are the crew adjusting to the change, do you think?"

"I haven't heard any complaints. Some of them didn't even realize anything had changed, at first."

"What about the captain?"

Geordi's brow furrowed. "What about him?"

"I'm only curious how well the two of you are working together. I can't assume much from senior officer's meetings -- there's not much to disagree on when it's all about housing arrangements and reception details. But it does seem to me there's something going on."

"Nothing that I can't handle."

Davidson nodded, his focus drifting left of Geordi. "I see."

"He's probably still recovering. It's no big deal. Mood swings are part of the leftovers from severe brain injury, right?"

"In a manner of speaking." Davidson wasn't as easy to read as Deanna. Maybe because he hadn't known Davidson as long as he'd known her, but he found it difficult to see any hint of what Davidson was thinking in his face. "How about you? Transitions from one position to another can be difficult."

"I'm managing."

"Geordi." Davidson smiled and became less inscrutable. "I'm not here to judge you."

"I understand that, Counselor. I'm fine, really. I do have a question for you, though." All the better to distract the counselor from questioning him. "How do you think the captain is?"

The counselor's face changed; dismay tightened his lips briefly before he could attain a neutral, less-interested expression. "Isn't it obvious what I think? He's back on duty."

"That's true, but I also know he's given you trouble in the past. I also don't believe he would make a very good patient. I don't envy you." Geordi forced a polite, all-business smile. "But it's part of my job to be aware of his well-being, and I have concerns. Commander Troi doesn't seem happy, and I suspect that has something to do with the captain's preoccupation and moodiness -- I want to know, as a friend and fellow officer, if there's anything that can be done for either of them. You seemed the person to ask."

The counselor's brown eyes studied him. "If there were anything you could do," he said after long consideration, "I would certainly let you know. But I don't believe there is. Excuse me, Commander, I have an appointment in a few minutes."

Geordi watched him leave, then turned to the duty rosters. If he had to suffer tension, he may as well be productive. Arranging the engineering roster had been a familiar and routine task, but overseeing the entire ship down to the non-commissioned and ancillary personnel put new depths of frustration in his days. The ops department in particular seemed prone to bickering; there were two appeals to the first officer's attention disagreeing with their assignments. He needed a new ops manager.

Though he was determined to focus on scheduling and trying not to think of battle tactics to use in his novel, his thoughts seemed to drift to them in spite of it. At length, he gave up, set aside the rosters for later, and picked up his novel again for the last half hour prior to his visit. After losing track of time, he ended up running through corridors.

Deanna was in her usual spot when he came in fifteen minutes late. She started rearranging pillows and trying to sit up. Instead of falling into the routine of drinks and chat, he asked, "Would you like to sit at the table instead? Would a chair help your back?"

"That might. Thank you." She grabbed his offered arm. Between the two of them, they brought her up from the couch. He let her lean on him heavily and stayed with her for the short distance to the chair, then gave her an arm for balance. "I can't believe I'm this unbalanced," she said, sighing. "It wasn't like this with Yves. I'm beginning to wonder if Dr. Mengis isn't giving me more than vitamins and inhibitor."

"He can't tell you what's making you dizzy?"

"He thinks it's something to do with the way my metabolism changed this time. He's being very careful about medications because he doesn't know how I'll respond -- he doesn't want to take chances with the baby, especially."

"That hybrid thing again?"

She looked tired, her lips pressed together and lines showing around her eyes. "Did you write the next chapter?"

They swapped padds. While they read in silence, Geordi found himself glancing at her and seeing things he hadn't noticed before. He'd adjusted to seeing her out of makeup, but she seemed more tired today than yesterday.

"Whose point of view is this written in?" she asked, startling him. He smiled nervously.

"Point of view?"

"I'm finding myself distracted by the shifting from the thoughts of one to the thoughts of another. Your captain's a Deltan empath, there aren't any telepaths, so how can we follow everyone's point of view?"

"But I don't mention anyone's thoughts."

Deanna cleared her throat. "'Eliadri considered her words carefully.' Then, the last line of the paragraph: 'Avitz wished he had taken the posting aboard the Ulysses.' Those are insights into the thoughts of the characters. It seems to me that the point of view character would not know Avitz was wishing, or what Eliadri was considering. I had thought until that point that we were in the point of view of Keph, the second officer."

"Okay, I see what you mean." He glanced at the final few paragraphs she'd added. Her output was lagging behind his. "I hate to say this, but this is one of the most depressing stories I've ever read."

"It's what the story is about, though."

"But I -- " He met her eyes and wondered, had he been so focused on the story that he couldn't see her? "It's not what the story is about. You're putting your own feelings into the girl, aren't you? The last two pages are about nothing but how she's feeling, how horribly lonely she is."

She turned away briefly, then refocused on his story. "It's also interesting that you put a Klingon warbird in the mix. Is this set in the past? I didn't have that impression -- in chapter two, you mention multiphasic shields and they didn't have those while the Klingons and the Federation were still at war, so there needs to be some explanation of why the Klingons are attacking, or more consistency in the technology."

"I'll fix it. Deanna, are you all right?"

Her smile was a pale ghost of what it should have been. "Of course. Tired, and -- oh, I'm sorry. I'll be right back." She gripped the edge of the table and rose slowly, wincing. "I shouldn't have had another glass of tea."

While she waddled off, he scrolled back to the top of her story and skimmed through it. The progression was obvious, now that he looked for it. When she came back, he noticed a slight redness about her eyes that hadn't been there.

"I think I'll have another chapter done by tomorrow -- I'm on a roll. How about we move tomorrow's visit to thirteen hundred?"

"I don't see why not. My appointment book is clear," she replied, attempting a lightness that defied her. "You've been much more productive than I have. I'm starting to feel guilty."

"Don't be. In fact, if you don't mind, I have a request. I'd like to see you start another story. Something real, autobiographical." Not depressing, or so he wished he could add.

"What do you mean?"

"Something adventure-oriented, like the story of what happened that time you were forced to impersonate a Romulan. I know you told us the story, but it's different writing it down in dramatic format. It'd be more helpful if we were writing the same sort of fiction, I think, because we'd both be in the same genre."

"Are you saying this is autobiographical? You're a Deltan?" Her amusement was brief but genuine.

"No, it's just the same sort of focus, on the adventure of being in Starfleet. I think it would be fun."

"All right. I'll give it a try." She wasn't enthusiastic, but there was hope.

Geordi went to the replicator. "You don't mind if I have a snack?"

"Of course not."

He returned with a plate of chocolate cookies. Taking one, he munched while re-reading her meager addition once more. "You know, it really is a very good description of what it's like to be depressed. But I'd expect that from a former counselor. I can't wait to see what you do with a Romulan ship."

"Romulan uniforms aren't comfortable, for one thing." She took a cookie and nibbled, just as he'd hoped. "What are these called again?"

"Fudge Nut Surprise. My mother's recipe." He patted his midriff. "Unfortunately, one of my favorite comfort foods."

"I can see why," she said, licking crumbs from her finger. She reached for another and looked again at the padd.

"Do you mind if I bring someone else along, too? I know this lieutenant. . . ."

~^~^~^~^~

At the reception, Picard made the rounds and tried to be authentically happy to see everyone there. They were, after all, proof of his return to duty. He was Captain Picard. When he moved on from the Vulcan delegation, he found himself in the far corner of Ten Forward, where Kamala sat at a table with two of her three companions. She gracefully invited him to sit down.

"This is Gruna," she said, touching the sleeve of the man on her right. "And this is Bilan. My escorts. Bilan, please get me another drink."

Bilan scowled at Picard, but took the empty glass away. Gruna smiled blandly.

"Gruna cannot hear. He is a sensitive, not quite an empath. When this occurs in men they are always deaf." Kamala smiled and nodded to Gruna, who dropped his gaze and crossed his arms. "He is my bodyguard."

"I had heard of the dissidents remaining on Valt. I'm not certain I understand how they would prefer conflict with Krios to peace."

"It is something we must handle with care," she replied. "We do not wish the dissidents any harm. We simply do not want them to continue the violence." She touched the gold braid on his sleeve and contemplated his hand. "I don't remember this. What is it?" Her fingertip brushed the ring, probably detecting the minute engraving on it.

"In my culture, wearing a ring can be either decorative or signify an attachment." He paused, disliking the reluctance. Disliking himself. "My wife gave it to me." Which was, technically, wrong. He doubted Deanna would have expected him wear it. Rings meant quite a different thing on Betazed. The jeweler had asked if he wanted one when he'd ordered hers, if he wanted them to match, and it had seemed a good idea.

Epiphany, then gentle sadness, showed in Kamala's eyes. "I look forward to meeting her. She isn't here?"

"No, she isn't feeling well." He placed the drink on the table, absently ran his palm down the front of his jacket, and glanced at Gruna. "I have heard that you are responsible for the good relationship between Krios and Valt, and for attaining membership in the Federation for your people."

"It's not something I've done alone. There are many others who deserve more credit than I." Her pride in her countrymen brought a smile. "You have different officers. A new ship."

"Also not something one does alone."

Her quiet chuckle reminded him that he rarely heard her laugh, in the hours he spent with her preparing her for an arranged marriage with a man whose only real concerns were the trade arrangements and economic benefit. Hours in which he learned that appearances mean little, and 'gentle' is not necessarily a weakness.

The dress she wore reminded him of something Deanna had, except Deanna never wore white. On Kamala, the loose-fitting, formless, floor-length gown became elegant. There were no revealing slits, no glittering sequins, simply soft folds and fancy stitching in red along the shoulders and down the tops of the sleeves.

The murmur of other conversations filled the pause in their own. He nodded thoughtfully, turning his ring under his thumb. "You told me once that you had chosen to bond with me."

"Yes." She kept her voice as low as his. Gruna did not look up, and Bilan remained absent, either remarkably slow in bringing her drink or wisely interpreting his mistress' intent. "It was to my advantage, as it turned out. I owe you a great deal, Captain."

"I don't believe I understand what that process meant."

Her hand closed over his wrist as she leaned close. "You're worried."

Their eyes met. There had been so much unspoken between them; he wondered what she had known, what she had guessed, if empathic mesomorphs had much in common with Betazoid empaths.

"Concerned," he amended. "I was concerned when you departed. I thought of it at times, over the years."

Inclining her head as if conceding a point, she sighed and brought her hands together in her lap. "It did not bind you in any way. Obviously."

His first impulse, an apology, struck him as wrong for several reasons. "I hope it did not inconvenience you."

She raised her head, almost haughty. Her eyes warned him. She was different -- but why would she be the same? After all she experienced, change was logical.

"My wife is an empath."

"A Betazoid, perhaps? I've heard much about them. We have Betazoid visitors on Valt from time to time."

"Yes. She is also my first officer." A pause, and he smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry. This is very awkward."

"I do not intend it to be. You've changed -- you aren't the determined man I met so long ago." She studied him solemnly. "Are you happy?"

Picard stared down at the backs of his hands, which sat in his lap.

"I see."

"I have been happy, since I married Deanna." Reaching for his drink, he sipped to give himself time to think. "Not so long ago, a few months, I was badly injured on a mission. Since then I have been recovering. She is pregnant. The stress throughout the time I was. . . ill, was not good for her, and now she is on medical leave herself."

"You feel guilty for this, yet I do not see where you carry any guilt. A mission is your duty, and if you are injured -- it was not as a result of a decision you directly made?"

"No. We didn't have enough information to even suspect anything would go wrong, other than the general knowledge that it was a dangerous region of space."

Kamala nodded, smiling faintly. "She must have wanted the child as well. Her stress was due to a situation over which you had no control. You shouldn't feel guilty."

"It's easy to say that, but it's a larger issue. If I hadn't started a family while aboard a starship it would not have come to this."

"But it is your duty," Kamala exclaimed. "Being in Starfleet is what you chose over all other options."

He realized, not because of her words but because of his own, that having Deanna as a wife had saved him from a dismal fate. It wouldn't have come to this; it would have been worse, he would be dead, or permanently insane or disabled. She hadn't been the counselor, but it hadn't been a counselor he needed. He'd needed grounding, a stable reference point, a guide to reality. However, that she had lost her own footing in the process bothered him.

"Why do you feel guilty?"

He looked up from the pulpy green dregs in his glass and learned all over again the problem with talking to an empath. "I have managed to be more of a burden than a help to her."

"But she made choices, too. We must all live with the consequences of our choices." Kamala smiled sadly. "Especially those of us with so many responsibilities."

"Kamala. . . ." It took him a few moments to put his thoughts into words. "It isn't that I take my responsibilities as captain less seriously, but my family -- "

When he couldn't continue, she nodded. "I can tell they mean as much to you as your career."

"No. More. I've been in Starfleet for more than fifty years, did you know that?"

"I did not," she said faintly. "I did not realize you were that old."

"Fifty years of working toward captain, achieving it, then striving to keep up with my own standards as I grew older -- it will only become more difficult from here. But I have a family, and my wife has her own career, and while she would support a decision to retire if she sensed it was what I wanted, Starfleet is still important to both of us."

As he spoke, he found the resolution he'd sought, the direction that had eluded him, and nodded. Kamala's lost expression prevented further explanation. After a pause, she smiled benignly and rose, Gruna springing up after. "I should see what has happened to Bilan. Good evening, Captain, and once again, I thank you for your hospitality." She glided off toward the end of the bar, where Bilan stood at attention.

He sat pondering for another few minutes. After noting that most of the ambassadors had either joined together around the bar or left the room, he departed as well.

All was quiet in his quarters. Yves could spend the night with his babysitter, Picard decided wearily, fumbling with the collar of his dress uniform as he muttered for the computer to shut off the quarter-intensity light remaining in the living area. The bedroom was more dimly-lit, and a whisper darkened it.

He undressed as he had many times before, in darkness, with the streaks of stars overhead for company. Leaving the pieces of his uniform, the undershirt, the boots, and the socks in a corner to be dealt with in the morning, he went to the bed. Listened to her breathe -- she wasn't sleeping deeply, no snoring. He found the covers' edge and raised it, turned to sit and then slide under, but leaped to his feet again.

"Computer, lights."

After a blink or two to adjust his eyes to the full intensity of the light, he identified the moisture he'd felt on his upper thigh. Blood.

All the air left his lungs. He snatched away the blanket and sheet, then leaned in to feel along Deanna's neck for a pulse. Adrenalin-generated anxiety resulted in too many thoughts crammed into mere seconds. Under his fingers, her pulse beat on, slow and unaffected by his panic. Strong. Rhythmic. Her breath trickled along the heel of his hand. She wore one of his undershirts, the gray falling far short of her hips because of the pregnancy, and her panties appeared to be red with a white side panel. The dark puddle of blood around her hips had spread unevenly, a long peninsula making its way to his side of the bed.

Several more seconds later, an eternity to his frantic mind, he inhaled roughly, forced to do so by involuntary reflex. "Dee!"

She woke, peered up at him through weary eyes, and started to sit up. Then she sensed his alarm, which did away with her grogginess. "What -- Jean, you're bleeding!"

He pointed at the bed. She stared, going pale as she realized what was really happening. Immediately she put her hand over her abdomen. "I'm not in labor," she said after a moment of introspection. "I don't feel anything unusual. She's fine."

He found his voice again at last. "Picard to sickbay!"

It took too long for someone to get there. Deanna lay still, settling back into the pillow with closed eyes and holding her abdomen. When the annunciator sounded Picard shouted out for them to enter, pacing impatiently. Dr. Mengis ignored him the instant he saw the blood stain. However, after taking a quick reading, rather than bark an order at the assistant who'd followed him in, he snapped his tricorder shut and nodded.

"No pain?"

Deanna looked up at him, relieved and weary. "No. Why am I bleeding?"

They were all too calm. Picard was on the verge of shouting when Deanna, sensing the impulse, reached for him; she kept her arm outstretched until he came to the head of the bed and took her hand. Mengis eyed this silent exchange and waited for it to conclude before speaking.

"Placenta previa. It's not serious."

"Not serious?" Picard blurted. "Not serious!"

"The blood flow has stopped, and the staining is misleading -- there only appears to be a lot of blood there," Mengis said. "It's caused by the placenta being implanted partially or completely over the cervix. Late in pregnancy as the uterus prepares for labor, the cervix expands and any part of the placenta near it is torn loose. The result is painless bleeding from the vagina. The baby's oxygen levels are fine; there's really no cause for concern."

"What if it happens again?" Picard stared at the stained sheets.

"It's not likely, but if she bleeds again, notify me at once, of course. Otherwise she should continue to rest as much as possible and all should be well."

Deanna squeezed his fingers. At that point, Picard realized that the doctor and a lieutenant were standing in his bedroom, staring at him while he held his wife's hand and wore only underwear. "Thank you, Doctor. You are dismissed."

Mengis' mouth twitched, causing the end of his mustache to jump, and he herded the lieutenant out of the room.

"I hope this hasn't soaked through," Deanna said, beginning the lengthy process of sitting up.

Picard unfroze, leaped to help her, and shifted into cleanup mode with all the skills having a son had taught him. He was smoothing down a clean sheet, grateful that standard-issue bed linens had an inherent stain-resistant, absorbent, and mattress-protecting quality, when he noticed Deanna's expression. She had gone to change clothes and returned to watch, standing behind him with a bemused expression.

He almost came to attention, caught himself, and glanced down. "I should change," he muttered. The blood on his thigh was drying.

First, however, he waited for her to settle again in bed. He took his time in the bathroom, hoping she would be asleep when he emerged. He came out quietly, pulled on a pair of shorts, and crept to the bedside table for the book he had been trying to read. Deanna, curled up under the covers with only her hair and forehead showing, seemed to be asleep. He went to the chair in the far corner and started over with chapter one.

He reached page forty without retaining a thing. Deanna's murmur reached him easily in the silence. "You don't have to stay awake. I'm all right."

Picard stared at the pages before him. Kamala's words floated in and around his memory of Deanna's logs and reports, his vague recollection of pain and frustration, and Yves' childish assertions that he would take care of Mama.

"Jean-Luc."

He closed the book. "Am I disturbing you?"

A moment, perhaps to collect her composure, word her response, assess his emotional state, or perhaps, he could not dispute the possibility, she was simply tired and slow. "You won't come to bed. That disturbs me. You're tired."

Turning off the lamp, he did as she wished, sliding into bed between clean sheets and trying not to remember the stains.

"Cygne, I'm so sorry. I -- " Should have been there? Duty required his presence at the reception. There would have been nothing he could have done to help her, other than call for assistance, which he had done. After a hesitation that disturbed him -- but nothing dire had happened as a consequence.

Bereft of anything to say, he responded automatically to her touch, put an arm over her and let her drape arm and leg over him as she pleased.

"I'm all right," she sighed against his cheek. Her fingers tightened in his chest hair.

"I should have -- "

When he couldn't continue, she sighed again. "Meditation?"

"I'll be all right."

Eventually, he fell asleep, but long after she did.

~^~^~^~^~

"Are you sure about this?" Lieutenant Fanchon asked.

Geordi didn't look back at her. "Don't worry about it. I saw her this morning, to discuss who's going to fill the second officer's position. You've met the commander, haven't you?"

"Yes, briefly, when I came aboard. . . it just seems intrusive, I don't know, you said you -- "

"It's all right, Karen." He tapped the annunciator. When the door opened, he transferred the plate of brownies to the other hand and held up the padd as he entered. "I got your story. Thanks for sending it ahead of time. This is Lieutenant Fanchon -- she's writing adventure stories, too."

Deanna looked up from the brownies to his face, then beyond him at Fanchon. "Hello, Karen. Come in, please." From the floor alongside the couch, Fidele thumped his tail and panted.

"Mr. LaForge said you wouldn't mind," Karen said timidly, stopping just inside the door.

"Don't worry about the dog. He's friendly." Geordi dragged chairs around, putting the coffee table between them. "How you feeling today? I heard you had a visit from sickbay last night."

"Don't worry about that. The doctor said I would be fine, I just need to rest more. Please excuse me if I don't move around. Are you writing a book, too, Karen? I'm not as prolific as Geordi -- he had seven chapters when he first showed me his work, and he's added three more." Deanna struggled to sit up until he raised the plate of brownies within her reach; she took two, and when he went to the replicator, she requested milk. Fidele put his head down and did a remarkable imitation of a sleeping animal.

Karen seemed to lose her trepidation after they'd settled in to read, with beverages close at hand and mouths full of brownie. She read Deanna's story first, since Geordi had already seen it and Deanna hadn't received his final chapters until now. Karen's story, Geordi realized, wasn't as polished as either his or Deanna's.

"This is amazing," Karen exclaimed at last. "I've never read a story where someone became a spy against their will. And I've never read a description of a Romulan ship that's so vivid -- the sounds, the odors -- it's almost like you were actually there."

Geordi and Deanna exchanged a glance. "Thank you, Karen," Deanna said.

"I feel so ordinary," Karen said, smiling nervously. "I only took a mildly-interesting away team mission and expanded on it."

"It's okay. Everyone has to start somewhere, and even mundane situations can be interesting." Geordi held up her padd. "This isn't bad at all. A little confusing in the part where you describe where everyone goes after the beam-down -- I thought for a minute the second officer had gone into the trees, and I couldn't figure out who was saying what for a few lines. But I think it's better than my first draft."

"Trade around?" Deanna held out Geordi's padd to Karen. "I don't know if you'll catch up -- "

"Mr. LaForge gave me a copy of his yesterday afternoon, when he invited me," Karen said. "I read most of it last night. It's just the last bit I haven't seen."

After they'd all had a chance to see each other's work, and to empty the brownie plate, Deanna handed Karen's padd back to her and brushed crumbs from her black tunic. "I think it's a good start, Karen."

"But the first paragraph isn't necessary," Geordi said. "Starting in the second would put the reader in the middle of the action."

Karen gaped momentarily. "Okay. . . ."

"We're used to being up front about our work, Karen. He doesn't mean to be harsh," Deanna said, re-tying the end of her braid. "Please don't take it personally."

"Yeah, you should have seen the changes she suggested. But you know, when I took her advice, the story turned out much better? Especially when it comes to the interactions between the characters." Geordi took his padd from the coffee table. "Deanna, I thought the descriptions in yours were excellent. Is that really how you spell the Romulan words, though? Because I've read other stories using the same words, and I think they were spelled differently."

"I was working from memory and how the words were spoken. And I'm using the Standard alphabet, not Romulan -- nothing I do will be spelled 'correctly.' I'm wondering if the dialogue sounds stilted?"

Karen sipped her hot tea, wide-eyed, looking from one of them to the other while they discussed the finer points of authenticity in alien language rendered into Standard. Then Deanna began to pick away at the final chapters, asking where characters had gone and why suddenly a Defiant-class vessel had appeared when his stated setting was several years before the first vessel of that class had gone into service. She found two unattributed and ambiguous lines of dialogue, a mis-used word, and corrected the behavior of a Vulcan ensign. By the time they turned back to discussion of Karen's story, the lieutenant seemed more at ease with their analysis, even offered a few attempts at constructive remarks about their stories.

An hour flew by too quickly. Karen noted the time in dismay and departed, after thanking them profusely and promising to return in two days; she'd have a chance to edit since the next day was her day off.

"I have a meeting with the rest of the senior staff," Geordi said. "Anything I can get you before I leave?"

"Help me up?"

As usual. He gripped her hands and pulled. There was a difference in her movements now; she had slowed down, and was careful not to bend or twist. Once on her feet, she didn't let go of his fingers. "Thank you for bringing her. She's going to be a good addition -- I suppose we have a writing group now."

"I thought it would be interesting to have someone else's opinion. She's very serious about it, too."

Deanna nodded, her eyes soft and affectionate. "I've enjoyed our time together. When I first started it wasn't my intent to keep writing. Actually. . . the story I was sharing with you wasn't something I wrote recently." She let go of his hands finally and sidled around the coffee table. "I'm afraid I cheated. I wrote that when I was eighteen. Including the very depressing bit at the end."

Geordi shrugged. "I'm sorry to hear that. Not about when you wrote it, that you were so. . . ."

"Depressed. It's not uncommon for children who have suffered an early loss to feel despair. And it isn't terribly unusual for an eighteen-year-old to believe she's the only one who's ever felt such angst." Deanna smiled again as she turned for the bedroom door. "But you got me to write for the first time in years, and I've enjoyed that quite a lot."

While she was gone, he picked up empty dishes. Fidele sat up and stared at the door she'd gone through.

"You're on watch, aren't you?" Geordi asked softly.

"I must monitor Deanna's condition." The dog's head pivoted on its neck, not quite naturally. That sort of thing never happened around people who did not know he was an android.

"Good. I'm glad you're here."

"Yves was most disappointed." Fidele usually waited outside the school while Yves played and learned his letters.

Deanna returned, combing out her hair with her fingers, and he noted a distance in her eyes until she looked directly at him and her smile returned. "Tomorrow?" she asked, startling him out of his study. One of her eyebrows twitched upward.

"Tomorrow."

He departed, thinking about the afternoon's schedule and the possibility of time for editing. The Rigellians had put in a special request for a sand bath, and the Vulcans were reporting -- one could hardly accuse them of complaining, that would imply emotion -- that they would be more comfortable if the gravity were stronger in their quarters. Though the urge to simply tinker with the artificial gravity himself remained, it wasn't strong enough to sway him from delegating the task and returning to other concerns.

~^~^~^~^~^~

Picard went himself to get Yves after school let out. It was the first time in months, and Yves' excitement at finding Papa waiting for him instead of Natalia or Guinan made the walk home an adventure. He bounced around, zigzagged down the corridor, and kept racing back to grab Papa's hand.

"Are we goin' to hollowdeck, Papa? Is Mama coming?"

"We're going home. Mama doesn't feel well."

Yves halted, face contorted in worry, or fear, or frustration -- probably all three. "Should we get doctoe?"

"No, she's already talked to the doctor. He told her to stay home and be quiet."

"We should get her a pwesent. Make her feel bettoe. I wike pwesents," Yves cried cheerfully, skipping ahead a few leaps. "What we getting her?"

"What do you think we should get her?"

"A kitty!"

"Cats don't like dogs, and we have Fidele. Think of something that isn't an animal."

"A gween dwess?"

"She has a lot of dresses."

"Chocwatt!"

"We always get her that. Let's try something different this time."

The lift opened in front of them. Yves ran through a list of his favorite toys and Picard questioned whether that would be something Deanna would really like. Finally, as the doors opened on the appropriate deck, Yves struck upon flowers and thought it not at all strange that they conveniently arrived at the entrance to the arboretum seconds after the decision was made.

They moved through the miniature ecosystems, passing from room to room full of flora of every shape and size. More careful guidance disguised as suggestions led Yves to pick from the plants with the most blossoms, and only two flowers apiece.

"Careful," Picard said as Yves reached for a spray of yellow flowers and nearly tipped over into the flower bed. He heard a step and turned, only to find himself gaping at Kamala.

"Good afternoon," she murmured, tucking her hands in pockets in the front of her wrap. The gray overtunic might have been mistaken for a blanket, if one didn't notice that it hung over her shoulders too artfully. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"We picking fowers," Yves said. "For Mama."

"A surprise," Jean-Luc added. "This is my son, Yves."

Kamala's face lit up then softened as she leaned in to look him in the eye. "Hello, Yves. I'm Kamala. Those are beautiful flowers. You love your mama very much, I can tell."

Yves stared, tongue-tied, and ducked his head, hiding behind the mass of pink, yellow and white blossoms, peering between them.

"I've been coming here every day. It helps me," she said, sidling toward a bench in a corner. "It's very peaceful here."

"I know that with Betazoids there's an inhibitor that can help filter out telepathic noise. You might ask our doctor if there's something similar that might help you, if you're finding being aboard the ship with all these alien delegates too overwhelming."

Kamala's lips formed a tiny O for a few seconds. "Thank you. I believe I'll do that." She glanced at Yves again; this time he had the impression she found the child's presence upsetting. "I'll see you later, I hope, Captain. I'm glad to have met you, Yves." She strode toward the bench. Taking the hint, Picard led his son back through the arboretum.

In the lift, Yves looked up at him. "Who was da lady?"

"She's one of our guests. I told you we had a lot of guests aboard."

"I don' like her." Wrinkling his nose, Yves studied the flowers.

"Why not?"

Yves shrugged and clutched his bouquet close to his chest.

When they presented the flowers to Deanna, she thanked Yves profusely. He stood on tiptoe and kissed her cheek. "You pwettier than the odder lady, Mama."

Deanna raised her eyebrows at this. "Other lady?"

"Someone we met in the arboretum." Picard glanced down at Fidele, lying on the floor alongside the couch, Deanna's appointed guardian. "Go with Yves. Help him pick out a shirt. He managed to spill juice on himself at snack time."

"I can do it," Yves protested, running for his room. Fidele trotted after him.

Picard settled on the coffee table carefully, putting himself within arm's length. "Need anything? A vase, perhaps?"

"Yes, a vase would be good." Her smile dwindled. "Are you all right?"

"The lady in question was Kamala. She's part of the Krios-Valtese delegation."

"I see. You have mixed feelings about her presence."

He nodded. "You remember her?"

"Not directly. I remember hearing about her. I wasn't aboard. I do remember your moods following that mission, since I returned just a few days after she left the ship. Not precisely an elephant, but not quite a swan?"

Frowning, he put a hand on her abdomen, absently stroking it through her dress. "It was not possible for her to be either, really. She went to Valt to marry someone else."

"As I recall, Beverly was quite upset over it." Deanna caught his hand, and thus his attention. "You were upset as well but for different reasons. She must have been difficult to resist."

Nothing safe to say about that. He sighed.

"She imprinted on you," Deanna murmured. "Which explains how she managed, in a male-dominated society, to make such progress in so little time. You're surprised?"

"You know more about Krios-Valt than I expected."

"Empathic mesomorphs are a curiosity to Betazoid researchers. Since Krios-Valt is now a Federation member, there have been quite a few Betazoids studying the phenomena. It's thought that mesomorphs and their history would give us a glimpse into our own possible origins as telepaths -- it could be that Betazoids began in a similar way, with sensitivity as a rare mutation that gradually became more common. One of Mother's friends sponsors such research." She passed him the flowers and pushed herself into a closer approximation of a sitting position.

"I was wondering how similar her empathy would be to yours. If there were any. . . ramifications." Rising, he went to the replicator. Putting the flowers in water gave him a reason to avoid her eyes. This was more difficult than he would have expected; the gap in communication between them and the memory of how attractive Kamala had been to him seemed to be a volatile combination. But thinking about it would lead to emotional turmoil Deanna did not need to suffer, so he thought instead about Deanna, smiling, happy, not pregnant, not suffering, in uniform, at his side on a mission.

"You're wondering if you were bonded to her in a way similar to our bond," Deanna said, continuing the conversation he had started, and now wished would end. "The female empathic mesomorph's ability is limited to that period of time before she bonds. After, she is less empathic -- less malleable. Bonding is less a matter of permanent connection than it is of personality development. Her base personality was set when she bonded with you. At that time, she was your perfect mate. I suspect that since then she has adapted to her new life, changed in subtle ways as we all do with age."

He placed the flowers on the coffee table and stood back, crossing his arms. "I see. Would you like to meet her? She expressed interest in an introduction."

Deanna thought about it. "That might be interesting. Tea, perhaps? I don't know if I could manage dinner."

"I'll see if she can come tomorrow afternoon."

"At fourteen hundred. The writing group will be here at fifteen hundred."

He smiled, resisting the temptation to ask if he could read her work. He'd wait until she offered it. "You're becoming quite involved in this endeavor."

"I enjoy the company, and Geordi's making such progress on his novel." She practically beamed thinking about it. "And creative writing is more involving than I expected it would be."

"Perhaps you'll be publishing something more than psychological papers?"

She blushed. "Probably not. It's fun to write, that's all." She looked down at her belly, extending her foot and raising her leg experimentally. "It takes my mind off how huge I am and how frustrating this is."

"Good. Well, I should get back to my duties, minimal though they are at the moment. Can I get you anything? Where is that boy?" He listened for a moment. No sound from Yves' bedroom, which couldn't mean anything good. "Yves!"

A moment later, Yves emerged, red-faced and shirtless. "Papa. . . ."

"Where's your shirt?"

"I can't," Yves wailed, flinging up his arms. "I can't I can't I can't!"

When he went in the bedroom, Picard found shirts everywhere, draped over the edge of the drawer, on the bed, on the floor. Yves snatched one up and tried to put his arm through the sleeve with limited success. Evidently he'd lost the ability to put on his own shirt for some reason.

Helping his son put on a shirt was easy. Convincing him to pick up all the others and put them away, not so easy. It was a good thing the mission wasn't dependant on his presence.

~^~^~^~^~^~

The annunciator, bothersome thing, went off in the middle of the editing of a battle scene. Geordi put aside the padd. "Come in."

The captain strode into the first officer's office. "Geordi," he exclaimed, passing the chair and coming up to stand at the end of the desk. "I just wanted to stop in and thank you."

"Sir?" Too late now to jump to his feet and come to attention. It left him in the uncomfortable position of looking up at his superior officer. He tried to go about it casually.

"Deanna mentioned you've formed a writing group."

He'd had no idea Deanna had even mentioned his visits, and though he had nothing to feel guilty about, suddenly he was anxious -- but the captain continued speaking, not noticing his reaction.

"You're one of the few who have stopped in during the day, and it's been difficult for her to be restricted to quarters."

"Yes," Geordi managed. "It helps to have someone to look at it and give an objective opinion. Her story's pretty good -- better than mine, actually."

"Well, I'll look forward to seeing the results. If you'll allow me to read it, that is." Picard smiled, glanced around again. "I haven't been in this office very often. It's small, isn't it?"

"I don't think she spent much time in here. I don't either, only when I have administrative work to do."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Picard tugged his jacket as he stood and headed for the door. "Carry on."

Geordi realized only after the captain was gone that it was the first time in weeks that he'd seen Picard actually smiling out of happiness. His hunch had been correct. Helping her had helped the captain. Grinning, he went back to figuring out the logistics of his fictional alien vessel and how it would operate. He would have to quit in a short while to make the rounds and ensure the comfort of diplomats, but in the meantime, Eliadri and her crew were in danger.

~^~^~^~^~^~

"Your son is in school," Kamala said tentatively as they went along the corridor.

Picard nodded and sidled right another step. She seemed to be edging closer as they walked.

Kamala hesitated, touching his arm. "You are constantly withdrawing from me."

"I told you, I have -- "

"An empathic wife, yes. But you are confident enough that you take me to meet her, so it is likely she will understand more about both of us than either would like."

"I am not worried about what she will understand about me." He met her gaze and took another step away from her.

Kamala, for a moment, hovered in wide-eyed incredulity. She nodded finally. "I do not wish to cause misunderstanding, Captain. Between us, or between you and your wife."

"Why did you ask to be transported to Babel on this ship?"

"Is it wrong to wish to see an old friend again?"

"Of course not. I only wished clarification." Picard started forward again. It hadn't clarified anything, really, but he'd tried.

"You weren't uneasy before," she mused aloud as she followed. "You are not anxious about my meeting her. But you are anxious, and I do not wish to -- "

"She isn't well, and she's very sensitive to the emotions of others."

Kamala caught up and matched his stride, her brow wrinkling. "You are concerned. . . about what she will sense from me? I shall be calm, Captain."

He had almost corrected her, offered her the use of his name, on a few occasions. Now it occurred to him that perhaps not doing so would work in his favor. "Here we are," he exclaimed, turning toward the door.

Deanna was where he had left her, propped up on one end of the couch. As he came in she dropped her hand from where she'd been smoothing her dress around her. The tea service already waited on the low table, and chairs pulled around in a semi-circle betrayed that she'd been up and fussing when she should have rested.

"This is my wife, Deanna Troi. Kamala, Chancellor of Krios-Valt. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Kamala took a chair that faced Deanna over the table. Her bright yellow and white clothing clashed with Deanna's topaz. "Good afternoon. What a pleasure to finally meet you." Picard sat on the couch and reached for the teapot.

"And a pleasure to meet you as well. Please excuse my immobility; the doctor's ordered me to rest as much as possible. Thank you, Jean." She gave him a bright smile as he handed her a cup of herb tea, sweetened lightly.

"How would you like your tea?" he asked Kamala.

"I've never had this sort of tea before. As you like it would be fine." She gazed into the cup he finally handed her. "This smells very different from Earl Grey."

"Chamomile. It's better for Deanna."

"You're very lucky," Kamala said suddenly, a little wistful. She gazed at Deanna's bulging midriff. "It's unlikely that I will ever have children. I'm much too involved in our government, and there is no sign that this will change in the near future. And Valt custom dictates that I cannot remarry."

"I'm sorry," Deanna said softly.

"I am reconciled to it. I leave a legacy for all Kriosian and Valtese children -- peace and prosperity." But the sentiment sounded hollow, as though she had repeated it too often without believing it.

"I'm surprised -- no Gruna?" Picard smiled, hoping to lighten the tone of the conversation.

"I persuaded him I would come to no harm aboard your ship. I informed him that the computer watched over all of us, and that he should remain with your security officer, deLio. They seem to have become friends. He does not have many of those." Though she smiled, the statement made her as sad as her previous one about children.

"You are very lonely," Deanna said. Horrified, Picard felt his back stiffen and barely caught himself before spilling his tea. Deanna eyed him briefly.

"The need for security does that. It is necessary." Kamala regarded Deanna with warmth in kind, her sympathy trebling. "You are also lonely."

"Temporarily. When I resume my duties as first officer, after the baby is a few months old, everything will be back to normal for me. I'm accustomed to seeing many people every day, the majority of which I consider friends. This enforced solitude is for my health's sake." She sipped chamomile and inclined her head toward her guest. "Jean-Luc spoke of your position and your intelligence, but not your beauty. Perhaps he did not wish to make me jealous." She glanced sidelong at him, a canny smile tugging at her lips.

"I left that out so that you could tease me about it, of course," he replied, still trying to escape into humor.

Kamala laughed aloud, Deanna smiled brilliantly, and though he didn't care for Deanna's assessment, he understood she was only teasing and the end result was her amusement. Suddenly both women fell silent and sober. Deanna watched him carefully, as if not knowing what to expect.

"She is beautiful, by the way," he said, reaching for his wife's hand. "Though I find that I notice such details less often when you are around."

She dimpled, mildly embarrassed and quite pleased, then started to laugh, bringing her other hand to her mouth. "You've gotten so much better at this. That was true, and an artful sidestep around -- Jean, I'm sorry. It's only that you've brought another empath in, and we can't deny what we sense. Would you like something to eat, Kamala?"

He knew her point was that Kamala could sense his emotions as well as she. It was only as Deanna shifted conversation away, to comparing Betazoid and Kriosian mental disciplines, that he recognized how gently she had reminded him, how quickly she recovered the discussion and moved on, and why she must have done it. He wondered if Deanna had sensed anything of his reaction when Kamala had arrived aboard the _Enterprise_. He reached for the teapot to occupy himself in refilling their cups. When he glanced up at their faces, he saw that both had gone quiet for a moment and looked at him, but looked away again with polite smiles.

"Thank you." He directed it to both of them and put his hand over Deanna's where she rested it on her thigh. "For pretending you don't sense anything."

"Not everything is important enough to address," Kamala said, quickly raising her cup and not quite hiding her mischievous smile.

"Damned empaths," he muttered, rolling his eyes. He smiled as they chuckled at his mock-dismay and switched subjects again.

~^~^~^~^~^~

"I don't think the captain would take over the helm," Deanna said.

Karen Fanchon, Garrison Kaplan, and Reiza stared at her. It was Geordi's twentieth visit in the month he'd been seeking Deanna's help, and in the past two weeks they'd added three others to the group. Natalia had alpha shift at ops for the next week, but the rest had come faithfully every other day. Geordi himself had sometimes dropped in more often, either to just see how she was doing or update her on how things were going.

Geordi, in a chair directly opposite Deanna, reached for one of the cookies in the center of the table. "I don't think so, either," he said, popping the mass of coconut and chocolate in his mouth. On the floor at Deanna's feet, Fidele sighed loudly and rolled on his side, mimicking a real dog with uncanny precision.

Reiza fluttered his ears. "The helmsman is paralyzed by fear," he said in his usual monotone. His flat, gray cheeks flushed to gray-speckled black. "The ship is in battle. Something needs to be done."

"The captain would order someone else to do it. Also he would try at least once to snap the lieutenant out of whatever state he's in. Also, lieutenants are not prone to freezing in fear by the time they're lieutenants, and anyone who is given bridge duty has generally shown the ability to function under pressure." Deanna shifted in her chair, winced, and resettled with her arms crossed over the top of her belly.

"But the second officer -- "

"I wouldn't like it if the captain did that and I was on the helm," Kaplan said. "Not that I'll ever get to the helm, but if I'm doing my job and I freeze for a second or two, it'd be really demoralizing to have someone run over and push me out of the way."

"I see. Thank you for the correction." Reiza's funnel-shaped ears flattened against his head. He turned expectantly to look at Fanchon, as they were taking turns and she was next.

"It's understandable that you weren't aware of how commanding officers handle crisis situations," Deanna said. "You entered Starfleet after serving in your homeworld's fleet and an abbreviated time at Starfleet Academy. Our protocols are different than those to which you are accustomed."

Both ears sprang forward and oriented on her. "How do you know this?" Reiza asked.

When Deanna glanced at him, questioning, Geordi explained. "You came aboard after the commander went on leave. Commander Troi is the first officer. I'm only filling in until she returns to duty. She's been keeping up on personnel changes."

"I was not aware -- my apologies." Reiza inclined his head in Deanna's direction, pursing his thick gray lips.

"No matter. Karen, would you like to read?" Deanna asked.

"All right." Fanchon brushed a stray wisp of blond hair back from her face and raised her padd. "I'll read a couple of pages of what I've edited. I'd like to know if it's improved. '_The away team materialized on the planet's surface in moments. Immediately, Kerns saw the creature approaching at a run. He raised his phaser and yelled for the commander to look out. The creature leaped, claws gleaming, at the commander and Janice's phaser beam caught it in the air._'"

"It's much better so far," Deanna said when Fanchon paused and didn't continue. "Please continue."

"I -- can't," Fanchon mumbled. "It doesn't sound as good as I thought. I mean, it doesn't even help you picture what the creature looks like."

"It's easy to get caught up in imagining what's going on and not describing it. Don't worry about it," Geordi said.

"It just doesn't sound the way I thought it did. Something about reading it aloud made me realize that."

"All you need is a little more description," Kaplan said. He smiled, took a cookie, and nodded to her. "Keep reading, please. You have less to be embarrassed about than I do."

"'_Janice dropped the phaser and stared in shock at the other officers. "I killed it," she screeched._' I can't read it, I'm sorry, it's horrible," Fanchon exclaimed, dropping the padd on the table with a clatter. "I can't believe I wrote it. After what you said about the bridge officers and how they would react -- Janice is supposed to be a lieutenant-commander and she's screeching on a mission."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed by it. It's only a draft." Deanna touched Fanchon's sleeve, leaning slightly in her direction. "It's a learning process. We only improve by trying again until it's better. You've already progressed and you've only been writing for a few months."

"Yes, but I only improved because I've been here a few times. Otherwise I'd still be writing the way I was before." Forehead in hand, Fanchon propped her elbow on the table and seemed to be trying to hide her red face behind her arm. "I never thought it would be this hard. There's so many details."

"Okay, clarify something for me here," Kaplan said, reaching for Fanchon's padd. "We're writing fiction. Why can't characters behave differently? In the published fiction I've seen that deals with Starfleet, it's not like reality."

"That's true, I suppose, but I want mine to be different," Geordi said. "That's like saying we can do something just because other people are doing it. I'm a Starfleet officer -- if I go to an agent or publisher, they'll probably want to put that in the bio. I can't let people think unrealistic behavior like that actually happens because I wrote about it. I can't write an autobiography because of classified material, so fictionalized truth will have to do."

"You wanted to write an autobiography?" Deanna frowned, for the first time that session.

"But I'm not. It would involve too many people's lives and too many missions I'd get in trouble for mentioning. Don't worry, I wouldn't write about you."

"How long have you worked with Commander Troi?" Kaplan asked. "Have you been aboard long?"

"Twelve years? Thirteen?" Geordi smiled at Deanna. "A lot of that while she was ship's counselor."

Kaplan and Fanchon glanced from him to Deanna, nodding. "That's unusual, to be stationed in one place for so long," Kaplan said.

"The _Enterprise_ is a good place to be." Geordi gestured at Fanchon with his half-eaten cookie. "Are you going to keep reading?"

"No. I'll edit it and read next time." Though her face was still flushed, she seemed to have recovered. She even smiled tentatively in answer to Deanna's warm acceptance. Geordi had seen this many times; whether it was being a counselor or just some innate ability, Deanna could communicate more through body language than he seemed able to manage.

"Then it's my turn." Deanna picked up her padd, brushing crumbs off it. She read for some time, about Romulans and pretending to be Tal Shiar. Kaplan stared until, unable to contain it, he snorted. Deanna stopped reading and questioned him silently with a look.

"I thought it was supposed to be believable."

"Deanna isn't intending to publish that -- she's writing for the exercise of it. I challenged her to write about that," Geordi said, leaning forward. "I don't think she could publish it. Remember what we asked when you came in -- not to repeat anything you hear in our group?"

"I should have read something else," Deanna said. She put the padd down and smoothed her red dress over her belly, sweeping away stray coconut bits. "That's the difficult part of writing about anything that's not widely known, yet people know exists -- it's easy to be accused of making it up. Perhaps I should go back to writing about Betazoids."

"Yeah, like the time your mother came aboard and wanted the captain to perform her wedding." Geordi laughed at the memory of the captain's expression while dealing with Lwaxana's outrageousness.

"On second thought, that might be a bad idea as well." Deanna seemed amused, but shook her head. "It would be impossible to capture in words the look on his face whenever my mother mentioned what she would -- or wouldn't, actually -- be wearing."

Kaplan's and Fanchon's eyes widened, and Reiza's ears twisted as he tried to follow this conversation. He opened his mouth, but the doors sighed open behind him, and in came the captain. All eyes went to him, and he stopped to return the stares in kind.

"I'm sorry," he exclaimed. "I forgot the time."

"That's all right," Deanna said, the brightness of her smile increasing exponentially. "We were just discussing nudity. Would you like to join us?"

Geordi tried not to smile in anticipation. The captain paused, stunned and uncertain, then his eyes shifted right to take /in those gathered at the table. "No, I have other things I must do this afternoon. I only came to get something -- I'll be out of the way in a moment." As he spoke, he sidled right and disappeared into the bedroom.

Fanchon gaped openly at Deanna. Kaplan raised an eyebrow and eyed Geordi, hoping for explanation, and Reiza had begun to sway in his chair, which brought his chin perilously close to striking the edge of the table. The captain left seconds later, almost jogging, something Geordi couldn't identify in his right hand.

"I'm sorry, I thought you all knew -- I'm the captain's wife," Deanna said. "Geordi, could you push those over here?"

He picked up the plate and held it up while she selected one. "Which explains how he's learned to tolerate teasing that way."

"I don't know how to take this," Kaplan blurted. "Romulan spy, counselor, first officer, and now captain's wife?"

"I take it you haven't been aboard for long, either?" Deanna nibbled her cookie and tried to mask mischievousness with an innocent expression.

"Not long enough to be subjected to transporter accidents or alien influence," Geordi said. "Or find out how far awry diplomatic endeavors can turn. I've been just waiting for the current one to blow up in my face."

"I think it's interesting that fiction demands that we twist the truth," Deanna added. "Just because something is true, it doesn't make it believable."

"I'd never heard of a captain marrying one of his own officers until I came aboard," Fanchon said.

"I didn't think they allowed that," Kaplan exclaimed. "I've read regulations." It came out almost as an accusation.

"There's nothing prohibiting it. Command discourages it, but what they prohibit is favoritism." Geordi reached for a cookie. "Let's get back to fiction."

"All right. How do we make the unbelievable truth believable, then?" Karen Fanchon asked.

"That's a matter of setting, I think," Deanna said, pointedly not looking at Kaplan. "The story itself should be consistent and believable at least for the duration of the reading. For me, that means something different than someone who isn't in Starfleet and knows no one who is. I can't read about a captain who pushes a crew member out of the way to fly the ship himself because I know the truth about command and all that it entails -- I wouldn't do that myself, unless the circumstances were so dire and compelling that it necessitated the action. So the key to making a captain believably do such a thing would be to create such circumstances."

"And if the captain flying the ship isn't really necessary to the plot overall in some way, there's no need to have him do it," Geordi said. "I only remember Captain Picard at the helm once, and he had a solid, compelling reason to do it." Picking up his empty cup, he headed for the replicator. "Everything in the story should serve the story somehow. Things that erode believability don't belong, nor do things that have no consequence in the plot. In the real world, most things have consequences, big and small. In fiction, the rules are slightly different. Depending on the author's reason for writing the story, the necessary details are different for each story."

"All I want to do is write a story," Fanchon said, laughing breathlessly. "You make it sound so complicated!"

"Well, in a way, writing _is_ complicated. There's so much one could do, so many ways to say things. Personally, I prefer reading fiction that allows me to draw my own conclusions," Deanna said. Sweeping her hair back from her face, she finished the last bite of her cookie and eyed her empty cup, then the replicator, as if trying to decide if it was worth getting up. Geordi saved her the trouble by taking the cup over for a refill. "Thank you, Geordi. Anyway, I prefer the subtle and evocative story over one that explains everything and leaves little to the imagination. I enjoy filling in the gaps myself. That's what I'm trying to do in my story. It's interesting how much more I appreciate a well-crafted novel after I've tried to write one myself."

"It does not appear difficult." Reiza finally tried a cookie. After touching it with his tongue, he fluttered his ears, laid them back, and put the cookie on the table. "But it is not easy to understand the difficulty until one has begun to write, rather than read."

"It's not -- "

A beeping interrupted Deanna. Fanchon grabbed her padd. "That's me -- I have to go," she exclaimed, rising. "Thanks, everyone, for all the help. See you next time." She hurried out the door.

"I should probably get back to engineering." Kaplan stood slowly, looking down at Reiza -- the Hesmed seemed even shorter with the six-foot-two engineer standing next to his chair. "I expect you'll be along shortly, Ensign?"

"Yes, sir." Reiza trained an ear on the lieutenant as Kaplan nodded to Geordi and Deanna then departed at an unhurried walk.

"How are things going in engineering?" Geordi asked once the doors closed. "If you're having any cross-cultural difficulties, I'd like to know so we can address them."

"It is difficult." Reiza's blunt muzzle wrinkled as if he smelled something bad. "But I am managing. Counselor Davidson has helped me."

After one more question about dialogue, which Geordi tried to help Deanna answer and probably failed to explain adequately, Reiza left as well. Geordi picked up after the group, empty cups and cookie crumbs and napkins going into the recycler, along with what was left of the cookies after Deanna took two more.

"Kaplan won't be back," she said into the silence, wistfully.

"He thinks we're off base. He'll learn. Or not -- it doesn't matter." Without waiting for her to ask, Geordi held out a hand. She hardly leaned on him, but it was ritual. In the past three weeks, she'd returned to the habit of wearing makeup, seemed to have more energy, smiled more often, and in spite of the uncomfortable and ungainly bulge in her long, loose dresses, she held herself upright -- almost back to normal. He glanced down as she turned and brushed against him by accident.

"Sorry," she said, patting her abdomen. "For some reason I still forget to compensate for width."

"You amaze me," he began, surprising himself, and continued only because of the surprise in her eyes. "The kids, I mean. On a ship, with the captain. It still amazes me how everything's changed."

Dimples appeared in her cheeks this time. "You've changed along with us, Geordi." She took his hand as he opened his mouth; the act stole his words before he could speak and left him gaping at her. A thousand memories of his time aboard the _Enterprise_ crowded into his thoughts. Her fingers pressed into his palm for a few seconds, then slipped away.

"Not like you have. Not like -- I thought -- I used to think there might be a chance, before I knew you better. . . ."

"I know," she murmured, then leaned and kissed his cheek. "I knew."

"That was when I stopped imagining I might have a chance, when I realized you probably could tell. It's not easy when you know someone's aware of everything you feel, maybe even what you think -- it's intimidating. When I got to know you better, I wasn't so afraid, but then we were friends and it wasn't the same."

"I understand." She had slipped into "counselor mode," her eyes full of sympathy and concern.

"But you weren't the sort of friend who makes a lot of demands on her friends. You always supported, always helped, listened, empathized -- I know you're just that way, but it seems to me you don't like accepting help from others."

"What?" Parallel creases appeared over her nose as she frowned. "Guinan helps all the time. And I know perfectly well why you kept coming back even though you flinched every time I criticized your story."

Geordi took a deep breath. "You were helping me. That's why I kept coming back. Helping me was helping you. I couldn't figure out why the captain came to thank me for visiting you, but I think I finally understand -- he wanted to help you and didn't know how, or maybe you were doing to him what you did to me, refusing his attempts. I can see how you might think he shouldn't be bothered with your problems in addition to his, but. . . ."

She looked away, out the viewports over their heads, and turned her body as she did so. He waited for a response but received none. When he tried to approach she waddled off to the desk in the corner and placed her hands on it, bending forward as if in pain.

"Deanna?"

"I'm all right." She didn't sound it. "Thank you, Geordi. You've been a true friend. I appreciate everything. You've done a wonderful job as first officer."

It seemed to be a faint and wistful dismissal, but he stayed. "No problem. I appreciate the opportunity."

"You've also apparently branched out into counseling," she continued, her voice rougher but with a hint of amusement.

"I had a good teacher. And I don't mean Davidson -- he's not as good as you, adequate maybe, but if I'd asked you for some insight into what's making the captain moody, you would have found a way to enlighten me without compromising confidentiality."

She bowed her head, her hair tumbling forward around her face. "Possibly."

"Anything else I can do before I go run a bunch of ensigns through one of Natalia's humiliating scenarios on the holodeck? She's concocted a particularly twisted one this month."

"No, thank you, Geordi. I'll be fine. Dr. Mengis told me yesterday that I'd recovered well enough to get more exercise -- I'm going down to Ten Forward and have a cup of tea with Guinan."

"Great! I'll walk with you. I've got a few more minutes."

When she turned, brushing her hair back, he smiled without faltering, ignoring the tears on her face and turning to walk with her toward the door.

In the corridor, as the door closed, she stopped and looked at the floor. "I owe you my life many times over, after all the times your engineering skills saved us, but somehow I feel this debt more than that one."

"You don't owe -- "

"But I do. Even if this little group you've put together falls apart, I want you to know that I'll help you with the novel if you want me to, for as long as you want. And anything else you need help with. Even counseling. I'm still licensed, you know." She turned to look him in the eye. Again, tears -- she used the edge of the long, billowing sleeve of her dress to dab them away.

The knot in his throat wouldn't loosen. He smiled, squeezed her arm briefly, and started for the turbolift. On the way down to deck ten, he finally said, "Thanks."

She tucked her arm through his for the remainder of the ride, only separating when the doors opened.

~^~^~^~^~^~

"Good afternoon," Davidson said as he came in. "I can't remember the last time you called me into the ready room -- is there anything I can do for you, sir?"

"Yes, please, sit."

Davidson did so, glancing at the stray teacup on his side of Picard's desk. "That was one of the ambassadors I passed on her way to the lift?"

"Yes. The Chancellor of Krios-Valt wished to thank me for. . . . But that's not why I called you. I suppose I ought to begin at the beginning."

He did so, reluctant and yet knowing that the details would remain confidential. The beginning he chose was more recent, the thoughts of retirement, but as he talked more details emerged about his conversation with Kamala and how that had impacted his thought process, which then required backtracking along more compromising and distant history with her. Davidson's surprise expressed itself only in raised eyebrows; he'd been aboard long enough to know that unusual was status quo. At the end of Picard's monologue he pursed his lips, sat back in his chair, and nodded.

"You thought about retiring because you perceive Deanna needs you more than Starfleet does. Then Kamala reminds you of duty, and this confuses the issue further. Now you are resolved to continue as things have been, but you are still concerned for your wife's welfare."

"That would seem accurate, yes."

"Seem? In what way is it inaccurate?"

"I. . . I'm not certain. It's easy for me to think about my options, but I'm having difficulty with the actual decision."

Davidson appeared to contemplate this seriously. "I understand a few weeks ago there was a bit of a scare -- placenta previa, as I recall? You haven't mentioned it. She did, when I stopped in to see her two weeks ago."

"That hasn't recurred, and the doctor is reporting that her condition has improved overall. Her mood has been improving as well. Partially because of the writing group, I think. It's done her a lot of good."

"That would be the group including Geordi. She mentioned that, too. I think you're right. And her improvements have made you happier?" It must have shown in Picard's face; the counselor hesitated only a moment before continuing. "You seem anxious, Captain. Would you share what you're thinking?"

"I am a bit worried, I suppose."

"About her? Yourself?"

"Our relationship. When I think about retirement, or continuing in my current posting, she is the first thing on my mind."

"Tell me more about this." Davidson shifted and leaned heavily on the arm of his chair.

"I think of her and wonder about my real reasons for considering retirement. I can't help thinking how it might be better for her career, or the children -- or how it would eliminate future situations that might stress her to the point of ill health."

"You're more worried about her than anything else."

"I'm not really worried. . . ." Picard stared at his counselor. "Yes. I worry, but I know that it's not necessary. She's capable of handling. . . . But I'm her husband."

"You feel duty-bound to help her? Obligated to be a certain way?"

"I obligated myself when we married."

Davidson looked away for a few moments, eyes lingering on the ready-room fish as they chased each other around the tank. He almost-glanced at Picard, his gaze falling to the desk instead. "Do you think Deanna expects this of you, or is this solely your expectation?"

Picard snorted. "I don't see how that matters."

"Is it Deanna's wishes you are considering, or your own? Or would she wish you to simply be yourself, rather than attempt to fill a role?"

Speechless, Picard sought the response that would fend off the counselor, placate him, assuage his concerns, and remembered -- counselors were not adversaries. The primary function of any therapist was to help the client focus and clarify for the client's own benefit. Perception of the therapist as anything other than a facilitator only reflected the mindset of the client.

"It's an issue I'll discuss with her later. Thank you for stopping by, Counselor, you've been very helpful."

Davidson smiled, seeming almost sad. "I'm glad I could help. I'll see you later." Rising, the counselor left the room.

Picard realized only then what he'd done -- they hadn't been finished, far from it, and he'd sent the counselor away without any sort of closure. Deanna would tell him such a dismissal eroded the counselor-client relationship. At this point, however, the thought of discussing the situation alarmed him in ways he couldn't verbalize. Something more than his concerns for her was contributing to his uneasiness now, and he must think it through before he could talk to anyone.

Picard returned to the review of status reports and the preliminary briefing for the next assignment, resolved to think about personal issues later.

~^~^~^~^~^~

"I wished to see you once more before I leave," Kamala said. She hesitated where she'd stopped, just out of the door sensor's range, clasping her hands before her and bowing her head as if in submission.

This was something Deanna had expected. As Dr. Mengis eased his restrictions on her movements, she'd started going for walks, usually in the less official areas of the ship and especially in the arboretum. Each time, somehow, Kamala had managed to be somewhere nearby and made a point of chatting with her. On two occasions she had appeared in the arboretum while Deanna sat meditating among the roses and struck up conversations that had ended only when Deanna expressed a need to leave. Kamala had hesitated each time upon sensing annoyance, but smiled when Deanna let go of the irritation and responded positively. Kamala was only lonely and seeking companionship, after all.

However, it wasn't easy to talk to her. She would go on forever on any subject, showing herself to be a source of endless facts about anything, but something was missing; Deanna finally identified the difficulty as a lack of emotional engagement. Kamala had been very carefully trained in everything from music-making to politics, from a very young age, and after a life of performing for others' benefit, she knew nothing else. Or, she feared being genuine with Deanna for some reason.

Deanna smiled and gestured to her left at the rest of the sofa. "I'm glad you came. Would you care for anything to drink?"

"No, thank you." She closed the few meters between them and settled on the edge of a cushion, folding her hands in her lap. "He is not happy."

Kamala's concern for Jean-Luc had been obvious. Each time they had met, she had carefully asked after his welfare. Perhaps now that she was about to leave the ship, she could voice her worry safely. "I realize this," Deanna replied.

"You haven't addressed it?"

"I can't do that yet." There were many other issues to consider as well but she would need context to understand them, and that would take many explanations.

"You're feeling protective of him. Does he need that?"

An interesting question. Deanna kept smiling, knowing her guest could see through any of her usual facades and resorting to them anyway out of habit. "Perhaps I need to protect him."

"A more selfish approach than I would expect from you. He believes he is indebted to you."

"Perhaps that's true. I am also in his debt."

Kamala tilted her head and studied Deanna seriously. "You don't think I can be accurate. Perhaps I cannot, but there are so many things you have not discussed, and I do not believe he would wish you to avoid him this way."

"I realize that." Did Kamala honestly not realize what she was doing? Probably she'd never confronted this sort of thing before, if her only friends were employees or other politicians.

"You are not concerned that you are hiding things from him."

"Yes, but I'm more concerned about him."

They fell silent and stared at each other in a peaceful standoff; neither of them sounded hostile. The confrontation had been soft-spoken and almost pleasant.

"I suppose I do not understand well enough," Kamala said at last. "I do not know the circumstances, nor do I understand what he has been through. He will not speak of it in any detail."

"His discomfort and secrecy is understandable. I'm sorry he's so uncomfortable with you. He was in love with you once, in a way."

Kamala's wistfulness returned. "Yes, and I was not able to return his affections. He was very careful and respectful of that."

Deanna waited, arms around her unborn daughter, fingers intertwined. The silence resulted in Kamala's discomfort; breaking eye contact, she looked around the room, tension around her mouth and in her brows. When she met Deanna's eyes again, she pursed her lips. "You are not as open to me as I had thought."

"What would you do in my place?"

A cryptic smile at that. "I do not think I would wish to be in your place."

"But you thought you might want to be, when you came aboard."

Kamala's smile vanished. Her eyes narrowed. Once again, they contemplated each other in silence.

"Of course, I understand the impulse," Deanna continued. Amy shifted in a series of wiggles, bumping against her mother's left arm in the process, and settled again. "You aren't the only one."

"I'm not certain I understand why he chose you."

"Is that always something that can be understood?"

Kamala tilted her head. "I am not your enemy, Deanna. There is no need to feel threatened by my presence, as you have each time we've met."

"I'm half human. It's quite human to instinctually react to something perceived as a possible threat. Potentially, you might have caused him harm without intending it."

Another pause. While Kamala assessed her, Deanna checked on her husband and found him upset. She closed her eyes and concentrated. Worry, guilt and self-inflicted persecution had his full attention, and it took a few moments to break through it. The instant he sensed her attempt all the anxiety melted away and he 'reached' for her, surprised and pleased. Which reminded her that she hadn't done this in a long time -- since his return to sanity she had been careful to leave him be, giving him the space she thought he needed and making contact only when he wanted it.

She enjoyed the contact with him until something distracted him -- probably someone requesting admittance to the ready room -- and drifted away after giving him a parting burst of warmth as a farewell. When she opened her eyes, she found Kamala staring at her.

"This is what your bond is," she murmured. "It isn't what I expected. It is not what I shared with him before."

"It wouldn't be -- you are not Betazoid."

Kamala raised her head, looked away at the door, at the shelves on the wall between it and the bedroom door, and for a few moments experienced a melancholy that brought tears to Deanna's eyes. Her hair shone with soft highlights; swept up into a rosette of curls, it had a lacquered appearance with not even a single stray wisp at the nape of her neck. She was so perfect, and yet so wounded by her fate. Deanna contemplated going further, and decided to continue being forthright.

"Did you hope something would happen between you?"

Kamala's melancholy ebbed into begrudging acceptance. "Perhaps. However, I see now that I would not be what he needs."

"If I were not his wife, his needs would be different. Kamala, you can't possibly judge what might have been by examining what is. We all change and adapt to our circumstances, or we work to alter the circumstance. He is as he is now because we have shaped our lives a certain way, and when he was injured our relationship suffered. If we had never married, this situation you find us in would never have occurred. It's likely that he would be retired and I would have moved on to another counseling position."

"I see how that might be so." Kamala's brittle smile saddened Deanna. "I'm sorry to have bothered you with my regrets."

"You came to express your concern. I can't be upset by that. Would you like tea? I'm thirsty."

Getting up and replicating tea occupied Deanna for a few minutes. When she returned with two cups, Kamala's mood had changed again. Now she gazed at the floor, hands folded in her lap, and seemed startled as Deanna's return disturbed her thoughts. She took the offered cup with an attempt at a smile.

"You are a good match for him," Kamala said. "A challenge, to keep him alert."

"Why would you say that?" Deanna blurted, caught off guard.

"I find you challenging. Unpredictable." Kamala smiled again. "His goal has always been to move forward, to be challenged. The difficulty he has had, however -- this vacillating between his career and duty to his family, seems a less-welcome challenge. He is tired, and not just physically. It seems he's reached some clarity since I have been here, but he still worries -- I think he must be uncertain of how you have changed. The way he interacts with you -- he begins to speak, the impulse is there, but checks himself and rephrases or says nothing."

Deanna lost patience at last with Kamala's persistence. Obviously no one else had ever pushed back, and it was time to change that. "I understand your concern and focus -- I can see that it's very important to you that he's happy, as you care quite a lot for him. But it's not good that you continually push for the happiness of others, whether that's your people or Jean-Luc Picard, while abandoning your own."

"Abandon? I have abandoned nothing!" Kamala gaped, poised in spite of her internal turmoil.

"You make yourself responsible for the welfare of others but not for yourself. You want a family of your own, you want relationships, yet you pretend that there is nothing you can do."

"Who are you to judge me this way? I am responsible -- it is who I am! It's what I must be!"

"You were raised to be the wife of a leader, not a leader. You are who you have decided to be, and no one has forced you to do it. That you are unhappy is also a decision you made, not something that is forced upon you -- if it's so difficult to accomplish all that you've done, and yet you have done it, then what's so hard about making your own happiness possible?"

Kamala put her cup on the table and swiftly rose from the couch. "You do not understand my life. You do not know what you are saying."

Deanna hesitated, her stomach churning from all the anger and hostility bombarding her. It swept over her suddenly -- she did understand Kamala's life. She had nearly lived a similar one. If not for her mother's continual flouting of tradition, she would have lived a life apart with no social contacts apart from other House children. She would have been as insulated from others as Kamala had been, raised in isolation to fulfill a specific role and as eccentric as her mother.

"What did you think you would do, when you met him again?" Deanna remained seated, calming herself and bolstering her shields as much as she could. "Did you think he would cease to be a starship captain and join you? Change to meet your needs? I didn't ask him to do that -- he didn't ask that I change, either. But both of us did change, and we have been happy, and neither of us has given up the belief that we will be happy again."

"I have been trying to help you," Kamala exclaimed, pacing away furiously and wringing her hands. "I have no doubt that you love each other and -- "

"It's never been about us, Kamala. You need to be happy, and you need companionship that you lack. You've become very isolated -- you always have been, in fact. Taken from your parents and raised in seclusion. I have some inkling of what that's like myself. But I was allowed freedom of self-determination, where you were not. I'm very sorry that you lacked that freedom. It seems to me that you have gained it in your rise to political power, however, but have not taken advantage of it. Perhaps you didn't realize it?"

"You are suggesting that I become selfish and ignore my duties!"

"Is that what you think Jean-Luc has done in marrying me?"

"I would not suggest that," Kamala said, halting on the other side of the coffee table and glaring down at her. "I have more manners than to make assumptions -- "

" -- and yet you have the temerity to make suggestion after suggestion on how to improve to my relationship with my husband. Interesting."

Kamala gaped for a moment, then gradually lost the indignation. "I only wished to help."

"I understand. But we can only help those who wish to be helped."

After another few moments of consideration, Kamala shook her head. "And it is arrogant of me to assume I know what could help you, when I have had so little experience with relationships myself," she murmured, surprising Deanna. She came around the table and sat again, sighing heavily. "Forgive me. I sensed so much, and understood so little. It is so rare that I am able to witness that side of a relationship -- everyone around me on Krios or Valt only focuses on being businesslike and proper. I did want to help. . . ."

That she could realize and accept this encouraged Deanna to go on, explicitly and plainly. "I had to learn how to be uninvolved and silent on such things, too. I was a counselor, though, and that helped -- part of my training was in objectivity and personal boundaries. I could tell you meant well, Kamala, and that you have not confronted this difficulty often."

"And so you confronted me, which is also something I am not accustomed to -- " She put a hand over her mouth and closed her eyes.

Of course Kamala would have difficulty expressing her own conflicting emotions. Years of repressing them in the pursuit of duty would result in an inability to handle them. Deanna folded her hands over her belly and drew upon her long experience with her captain in dealing with this -- she did not reach out as she would with so many others, nor did she soften what had gone before with apology or platitudes.

"Thank you for your concern for us, Kamala. I know you only mean to help us. I've never sensed anything to the contrary."

Kamala looked up, dropping her hand. She sensed the sincerity, no doubt. "Can you help me?"

"I can connect you with someone who could." There were any number of therapists on Betazed who would leap at the chance to go to Krios-Valt, given the research possibilities. That seemed to be the only way Kamala would find someone with the objectivity she needed.

"But not you," Kamala murmured, edging into despair. She had been despondent so often over the past week, but had always pulled herself back repeatedly by force of will. That wasn't working as well now. More than anything else, Deanna realized, Kamala had come searching for companionship. She must have come to reach out to the only other authority figure she knew, someone she recognized as an equal and sympathetic to her -- the starship captain who had helped her prepare for her future.

"I believe you need a friend as well as a counselor. I can be a friend."

Kamala's wide eyes met hers, and a real smile began to appear. "Is it possible for me to exchange messages with you, now that Krios-Valt is a Federation member?"

Deanna smiled as she settled back into the cushions. "Oh, yes. I can help you with that."

"I appreciate your candor and your acceptance."

"Being in a position of leadership can be lonely."

They considered each other seriously. Kamala nodded, looked down into her cup, and smoothed her skirt over her thigh unnecessarily. "I thought I was lonely before, being raised apart from other children and expected only to prepare for my role as a wife. In some respects, my responsibilities are preferable to the role I was expected to fill; in others, it only increased the loneliness."

"I used to guess at what made Jean-Luc so distant and alone. When he was injured and I had to command the ship in the ongoing crisis while he suffered, I finally understood the distance he maintained for so long."

"But he didn't continue to distance himself. He decided to end his isolation."

"And the consequences have been more or less as we expected, but still, I don't believe either of us regrets the choice."

"Perhaps there is a way to change the law regarding remarriage," Kamala mused softly.

Deanna smiled. "I believe that there must be a way to do any impossible task you believe in doing. We make a habit of it."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Geordi stopped in for a cup of Guinan's coffee. He laughed with her over the time of day and his sudden increase of coffee intake over the past couple of weeks, then turned to go. When he noticed Counselor Davidson sitting alone in a corner, however, he paused. Davidson seemed deep in thought and somewhat troubled. Geordi thought about something Deanna had said about his story, about the first officer's behavior toward a junior officer he didn't care for and how short-sighted it was, and headed for the far end of Ten Forward instead of leaving.

"Hi, Counselor."

Davidson looked up from his PADD. Geordi caught a glimpse of a description of thrusters and a line of dialogue ordering someone to fire at another ship before the screen went dark.

"Hello, Geordi. What are you doing here this late in the afternoon?"

He held up the coffee by way of explanation. "I could ask the same. Writing reports?"

"No, this is leisure reading. Taking some time off after a difficult client."

Geordi straddled a chair and sipped his coffee. "I'm starting to wonder how counselors get through it all and stay sane. I'm dealing with some interesting group dynamics myself at the moment, between needy ambassadors and the entire ops department wanting to rearrange their schedule daily."

"It's not that people are deliberately making my life difficult, either." Davidson dropped the PADD to the table with a clatter and reached for his own cup. "I know they don't intend any insult. But when it's obvious there's something going on with them, they need to work it out to make their lives happier and the stress more tolerable, and they turn around and hide from it -- what good am I, really? And while I know the answers, even tell myself it's nothing to take personally, here I am reading old science fiction to distract me from it."

At this unexpected confession, Geordi leaned away from him and tried to find something suitable to say. Something first-officer-ish. Since nothing came he resorted to humor. "There are difficult clients aboard?"

Davidson snorted. "It's a sad thing, Geordi. The ones you know need it the most are the ones who shut down, obfuscate, or intellectualize their issues."

"If it's any help, I know at least one client who's benefitted from your assistance. Reiza told me earlier you've been helping him adjust."

"Thanks." Davidson's smile was sad, however.

"Deanna seems to be doing better, too."

"She hasn't been so bad since she's been on leave, actually. But you're right. Her health is improving as well -- Gregory tells me her pregnancy is back on course with no apparent ill effects from all the weeks she spent being stressed about duty and the captain."

"That's a relief." Geordi thought for a minute, studying his drink absently. "I've seen both of them bounce back from some serious situations over the years. I think it's getting harder for them to cope -- this time, there's an added problem where they're caught up in looking out for each other, too. Maybe it distracts each of them from their own recovery?"

"That's an interesting observation."

"Or maybe it's actually harder than it looks, and they're actually helping each other recover faster than if they weren't together. Because he's only getting older, and she's. . . well, pregnant."

"It's interesting -- I've read a lot of science fiction from different eras. Countless space battles and alien encounters of all kinds, and only a handful of stories even mention the aftermath. As if it's easy to adjust after having someone invade your mind and telepathically rearrange things." Davidson shook his head at the PADD in front of him. "It's as though authors believe their audience won't be interested in reading about it."

"Ever write anything? Maybe you've found unexplored territory."

Davidson shook his head. "Thought about it. I'm too busy most of the time."

"Do you have time to act as a consultant on someone else's work?"

"I thought Deanna was in your writing group," Davidson said, raising eyebrows and eyeing Geordi.

"There's no such thing as too much feedback. I'd like to hear any ideas you might have, especially since you've read lots of fiction."

"Old science fiction," Davidson said. "Nothing really recent."

"That doesn't matter. I'm not really writing science fiction, either, just trying to make it a good story. I'm probably missing out on some good character insights; sounds like you could fill in some gaps."

"All right, sounds like fun." Davidson accepted the PADD and set it atop his own. "How are you doing, by the way?"

"Great, but still busy. I should get back to the bridge. Thanks for taking a look at my story. And if difficult clients turn into officers whose fitness for duty comes into question, you'll let me know?"

"Absolutely. Thanks for the chat."

Geordi sniffed as he stood up. "I realize it's not easy, being partly responsible for your senior officers' mental health."

Davidson's eyes narrowed. "Who made you the counselor's counselor?"

"I did, when I accepted a promotion and this job."

"I wouldn't have put it that way, but I suppose there's some truth to it." He grinned. "Glad to see you've adjusted so well."

~^~^~^~^~^~

Picard stayed in the transporter room until beta shift, bidding farewell the endless stream of ambassadors. The conference had taken a week, but the route to drop everyone off took two. They were in orbit around Starbase 213 again, unable to dock and therefore using the transporters.

Kamala's group arrived late. Her bodyguard and two assistants were laden with luggage, leaving her free to clasp his hand and say good-bye. "It has been wonderful to see you and Deanna," she exclaimed. "I hope that I might see you again. Perhaps when our civil difficulties are resolved I shall invite you to Valt."

"We would enjoy that, thank you. I wish you all safe travels." He nodded to Gruna, the ever-smiling, and received a nod in return.

"I'm very happy to see you have found someone like her." Kamala dropped her hands and folded them in front of her. "I hope that you find a way to clear the tension between you."

"Thank you," Picard said, uncertain of how else to answer. He gestured at the transporter pad and stepped aside.

She took her place, her attendants arranging themselves around her, and it was for a moment a step backwards in time. Kamala on her way to her destiny, leaving him to his, both of them smiling. Again, he used a polite smile to hide something, though this time it was only wondering how to discuss Kamala's assertion with Deanna. The transporter beam took the Krios-Valtese delegation away just as the Rigellians arrived.

Another four departures and his day was done. He thanked deOrda, left the transporter room, and made his way home. Their quarters were too quiet and clean. Picard stopped just inside, surprised by the departure from the norm.

"Yves? Deanna?"

"In here," Deanna called. He followed her voice through the open bedroom door. She sat at her dressing table, studying her left hand. In her right she held a tiny brush. She'd put up her hair, put on makeup -- very different than the usual evening procedure of undoing such things.

"I'm sorry I'm so late. I hope you didn't wait for me for dinner."

"No, I'm only waiting for you. The doctor says I'm doing so well I don't have to worry about too much activity any longer. I took the liberty of arranging a babysitter." She applied lacquer to her middle fingernail, taking her time with each stroke.

"How was the writing group? You've added another person." Noting the hint of her favorite perfume still lingering in the air, he went to the closet as he unfastened his jacket.

She said nothing. After changing into a different shirt, he glanced her way. She finished her pinky nail, put the brush aside, and waved her fingers in the air. The red polish matched her lipstick and her dress. She sighed, extending her leg and raising her bare foot.

Wanting to encourage this much-improved mood, Picard left the closet, picked up the bottle of polish, and knelt before her. After some consideration of a process he'd never cared to think about, he carefully swiped lacquer on the largest toenail of her right foot. She held still, leaving her foot where he'd propped it against his knee. After finishing the right foot and reaching for the left , he glanced up and caught her in the act of trying to wipe tears away before they fell.

"Dee?"

"I'm all right. I know I say that a lot -- but I really am." She smiled, switching feet for him. "I was only thinking of how wonderful you've been. I know I've been distracted and moody."

"It's perfectly understandable. I haven't exactly been myself either."

"There aren't many relationships that would survive the sorts of things we endure."

"I tend to think it's why we do survive." The smaller toenails were easier; the smallest took only a single pass to coat it. "We know too well what can and does happen out here, so we're more patient with each other. You perhaps better than any of the rest of us understand what people go through."

"I'm sorry," she murmured.

He looked up from tightening the cap on the bottle. She took it from him, and he remained on one knee before her, not wanting to disrupt the conversation though his knee ached. "Sorry?"

"You wanted to help me. I was frustrated that I couldn't help you -- I thought you were still suffering symptoms of your injuries. I didn't want to anger you by asking and when you were so preoccupied and moody I couldn't think of what to do."

"You were thinking -- " He rose, offering a hand as she prepared to stand as well. "Why weren't we talking about this? What happened to hajira?"

"It's not going to make us communicate automatically. I've also been concerned that there's been some damage to the bond and afraid to test it. Especially when I believed you were still healing. . . ." She reached for him, spreading her hand over the back of his head and pulling him close. "I'm so sorry. I didn't recognize you were so worried about me. I thought it was. . . ."

"Stop this," he exclaimed roughly. "Stop. If there is blame to be had, I share it."

Embracing her wasn't easy; from the front it became a game of leaning over her belly, or of her turning and twisting to minimize the obstruction. He solved the problem by stepping to one side and pulling her shoulder against his. Her head against his shoulder, she kissed his jaw and rested in his arms.

"I only wanted to do what was best for you," she murmured. "I should have said something sooner than this."

And he felt her fear and hope as she let her defenses go, proving the bond was there, as it had probably been all along -- waiting for them to realize what they were doing to sabotage it, he realized bitterly. But she had no patience with self-recriminations, and he couldn't remain angry with himself while hajira pulled his attention to her.

"All right?" Whether he said it aloud or not, she heard him. She disengaged slowly, wiping a few tears away with a wadded tissue she still held.

"Definitely, let's go out," she said. "Anywhere on the holodeck we haven't been lately. Anywhere private."

"Outdoors?"

"Yes." She took his arm. "Further proof that empathy without communication is not always useful."

"I'm not fragile," he exclaimed, escorting her out into the corridor.

"We all are. I was still too aware of that."

"Can we stop talking about this now?"

"For now." She remained silent as far as the nearest lift. "I wonder if Geordi will use us in his novel?"

"What!" Picard hesitated in the open door, scowling.

"That's part of his plot -- the romance between the second officer and the captain, which happened after the first officer died in the line of duty. I wonder if by the end of the book it will all work out for them."

"He's writing about -- I don't know if I like that idea, Deanna. What if people think -- "

"It's a completely different situation. She's Deltan, he's human, she's captain, he's second officer, and they really don't want to admit they're attracted to each other -- "

"Deltans are bald."

Deanna looked up innocently. "Are you implying there's a similarity between you and a Deltan?"

"He'd better not write about anyone that resembles us," he exclaimed.

"He wouldn't do that." She kissed his cheek. "Not intentionally, anyway."

"Deanna -- "

"I'm his reader now. I wouldn't allow it."

"Hm." Picard smiled a little, letting his ire dissipate. "All right, then."

"So I suppose I should tell him to make the captain Vulcan, instead of Deltan, because of the similarities."

He merely smiled at her. She raised eyebrows questioningly. Rather than admit that he found her teasing encouraging, he shook his head and asked the computer to resume. The lift doors opened on deck six moments later.

"Kamala had high hopes when she came aboard. I wonder if you were as appealing to her as she imagined you would be?" Deanna mused, stepping toward the door.

"Damn it, Dee!"

He caught himself before he could say anything else. Exiting the lift, he stepped around her and faced her, ready to apologize and soothe, but the expression on her face prevented it.

"She was right, you know," she murmured. "About some of the things she observed. We've been too careful about each other." Before he could respond, she cupped her hand over his cheek, her palm warm against his skin. "I appreciate how concerned you are, Jean, but I'm much, much better now."

He exhaled slowly, composed himself, and said, "I understand this. But I would feel better if. . . . I don't want to be cross with you, Cygne. Not now." Rather than continue he waited, glancing down at her belly and giving her the moment to sense how tired and wistful he was.

"Let's go," she whispered. He met her solemn eyes briefly, took her hand as it fell away from his face, and escorted her down the corridor toward the holodeck.

Perhaps they were avoiding serious discussion, but at least now they had acknowledged it, along with their motives for silence. She was letting her guard down; now, when he made the effort, he could tell how she felt -- pensive, worried, but accepting of his need to forestall further conversation about sensitive issues. As they paused before the holodeck controls and debated choice of program, she relaxed even more, her grip on his fingers sure. She smiled at him, genuinely affectionate, when he answered a question.

He could live with that, for now. She would let him work out whatever he wished on his own terms. He wished he could find the words to thank her -- for all the things she'd done for him, for this continued forbearance, for her tenacity in remaining committed to making the relationship and their careers work -- but as he thought about it, she leaned closer. Her lips tickled his ear as she whispered.

"You're welcome."

"Damned empath," he grumbled, leaning in to kiss her.

"I think," she murmured softly some time later, "that I would like a program with moonlight. . . ."


End file.
